Bad Faith
by Morrighan256
Summary: COMPLETE. Multi awardwinning DracoHermione. PostHogwarts tale of the war with Voldemort and the unexpected contributions of one Draco Malfoy. Drama, War violence, Character death.
1. Confatalis

_"Expelliarmus!"_

Caught off guard as she was distractedly browsing the Counter-Curse section of the Aurors' Library, Hermione's wand flew from her fingers, clattering to the floor some ten feet away.

_"Silencio." _The voice was male, and familiar. Hermione had no time or inclination to place it as she scrambled for her wand, just catching a glimpse of a tall shape in the shadows. _"Accio wand," _he added, and Hermione groaned inaudibly as her wand darted past her, too quickly to intercept.

Or perhaps he was just quicker. His left hand caught the wand and his right arm caught her, winding swiftly around her throat and clamping tight. She dug her fingernails into it, kicking behind her, hoping to catch him in the shins. He responded by lifting her completely off the ground and tightening his grip on her throat until grey light flickered in the corners of her vision.

The fight left her, and Hermione went slowly limp, fighting unconsciousness and knowing there was nothing she could do. Yet. Not many people, Muggle or Wizard, had the stomach or patience to truly choke someone to death.

Her captor pulled them both back into the shadows, muscles beginning to tremble in his arm from the effort of keeping them flexed taut. He reached into his pocket, and something jerked behind her belly. Hermione had a panicked instant to think, _a portkey?_

The arm turned her loose and she whirled, backpedaling rapidly across a shadowy glade.

The last person she expected to see was Draco Malfoy.

The last thing she expected him to do was start stripping off a shirt that had seen much better days.

"You can try to run," he said grimly, "but then you'd make me chase you down and petrify you. I'm not going to hurt you, so you might as well sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up. _Retroago." _

"–cowardly Death Eater murderer..." Hermione said, her voice abrupt and loud in the silent glen, and rounding off nicely the curses she had been hurling at Malfoy. His mouth twisted.

"No points, Granger. Not even one out of three. Come here."

"What? Why did–"

"I said _come here," _he snapped, sliding the shirt off his shoulders. "Did you think I brought you out here for a fucking _chat?" _The third obscenity, from the lips of Draco Malfoy, was oddly galvanizing. Other than the greatly overused _Mudblood, _Hermione had never once heard him descend below condescension and sheer viciousness. And he had a point–and her wand. Taut with tension, she approached.

The moon was thin and wan, but bright enough to ripple over the planes of his chest, shadowing nicely on the ridges of his abdomen. Both arms outthrust, he watched her through narrowed eyes that were nearly colourless in the moonlight.

It took a moment for her to realize what he was showing her. Bare arms. Pearlescent skin, nearly glowing in the darkness.

And there was no mark.

Malfoy rotated slowly, showing her unadorned broad shoulders, a sinewy back that was as pale and smooth as the rest of him, and just as unmarked. At least, absent of the Dark Mark. Lines of an even paler white stretched over his shoulders, curved down to his spine, licking around slightly prominent ribs.

"Satisfied?" He asked coldly. "Unless you want to check my bum, too, Granger."

"Voldemort isn't branding his cattle anymore?" She retorted. "Do what you're going to do, but don't play games with me, _Malfoy."_

She spat his name like an oath, and since the raid that had killed Minerva McGonagall, it was. Lucius Malfoy, exposed as a Death Eater and running from the Ministry, was still as deadly as a snake when he struck. And from earliest acquaintance, Draco had been the proverbial chip off the old block.

Draco stared at her for a moment, something she couldn't identify flickering in his eyes. It was gone, but it was not contempt, nor was it anger.

"Sit," he said, rubbing his eyes. She didn't move. "Goddammit, I said sit!" He said, pointing at a nearby tree stump.

A Muggle curse, no less. It was that more than anything else that made her sit warily. If he'd bewitched the tree stump to swallow her, it wouldn't be the worst way he could kill her.

"Now." He breathed the word, struggling for control, "will you be still and listen?"

As if some celestial puppeteer had tugged a string, Hermione felt her head nod.

"I am not a Death Eater. And the things I'm going to tell you will help you find them and kill them. All."

_All, _including his father, and she saw the muscles in his jaw work as he clipped off the end of the word.

"Why?" She asked simply. "You hate Muggles and anyone with a drop of Muggle blood in their veins. You're a Malfoy. You've hated _me _for years."

"Hated?" He repeated. "Tell me more about myself, Granger. You seem to know most of the salient points."

Rebuked, she scowled at him.

How his anger could just bleed away, she didn't know, but she could see it flow out of his eyes as he approached, dropping to one knee in front of her. Even kneeling, he was taller, his head cocked slightly as he met her gaze squarely. It was a long moment as she stared into Draco Malfoy's face. A face that was familiar and alien; the face of a man now, filled out into a broader jaw than she would ever have credited to the pinch-faced little boy who'd tormented her.

"There are things you _don't _know," he said gently, as patient as if he were informing her that water was, in fact, wet, despite all she might have heard to the contrary. "Like the fact that my father and the rest of the Death Eaters are so intent on keeping their power, their money, their _status, _that they haven't noticed that no one's trying to take it away from them. That they blame Muggles for the evils of the world because they fear them and they fear Muggle Science. They..." He cut himself off there and stood abruptly, staring into the sky as if he saw more than stars there.

"They're looking for an artifact in Romania. Like the Philosopher's Stone, but I don't know what it does."

"You're _spying _on them?" She blurted, and he glanced at her with one eyebrow raised, a feat that had always irritated her.

For an instant, the old Draco crawled up from the grave.

"You're not usually this slow, Granger," he drawled. "If you're the best Gryffindor had to offer, then I must have vastly overestimated that whole House."

Hot words bubbled to her lips, and he quelled her with an upraised hand.

"We don't have time to argue."

Those lips, which she had only seen sneering or twisted with rage, were tight and grim now. It threw her. This whole situation threw her. When Malfoy had vanished from Hogwarts in the middle of sixth year, everyone had assumed the obvious. For that matter, she was still assuming the obvious: that this was an elaborate trick, and the other shoe would drop any moment. Most likely beginning with _crucio_ and ending with _avada kedavra. _

"Why should I believe you? Give me one good reason to trust you. You were horrible to me from the moment I first met you, and you've given me no reason to believe you've changed." Which wasn't strictly true, but he had confused her. She hadn't seen him in six years. For all the trademark silver eyes and pale hair, he was a stranger.

And a dangerous one. She was on her feet and a step back before the menace in him reached her conscious mind, and by then, he'd already gripped her chin in fingers that clenched painfully tightly. He was abruptly furious, and she could no better figure his sudden moods than his sudden shift in allegiance.

"I do–not–have _time _for this," he growled. "You're a Legilimens. Look."

She drew a deep breath and focused on those pale eyes, which met hers without flinching. Flipping pages in a mental book entitled _Legilimancy, Occlumency, and the Possible Dangers Thereof, _she sighed softly.

_"Legilimens," _she said.

A group of men, masked and hooded, speaking in low tones around a magical campfire...

The cold plane of a heavy oak door, his ear pressed to the keyhole as he listened...

Flight, wandless and terrified, as he crashed the bracken of a dark forest, stumbling, rising, running...

The magical _crack _of a lashing-spell as he ground his teeth to be silent...

Worse and worse, until Hermione didn't want to look, didn't want to know any more. He made no effort to thrust her out of his mind; let her burrow as deep as she dared, dig into the darkest corners of his memories.

His skin was trying to crawl off his body when she released him, his breath in rapid pants that puffed white, his whole body shuddering. He had not tried to look away from her, and didn't now, gazing down at her with neither pride nor shame in his face. Nonetheless, his proximity abruptly made her nervous. _Sweet Circe, he got big, _she thought involuntarily.

As if he, too, could page through her thoughts, Draco swung away and wrapped his arms around himself. For the first time she realized that in his thin shirt and worn trousers, he was most likely cold.

"You've been spying on us," she said, too confused to think of most of it, and thus sticking to facts. "And we never knew."

"Yes."

"You've been spying on me."

"Yes."

"You were planning this before you ever got your Hogwarts letter."

A short bark of laughter. "Yes."

"Why me?" Hermione reached tentatively to touch him, make him look at her again, and he flinched away.

"Who else would have listened?"

"You didn't give me much choice."

Now he looked, and actually seemed to see her. "True, but I didn't worry so much about you trying to kill me with your bare hands. Having to hex Potter or Weasley into a stupor would have tainted the experience for all concerned. And neither of them are a Legilimens."

There were a million tiny pieces that began to fit together as he spoke, and, Merlin save her, she believed him. She had seen him spying on her in his memories, but never once had he appeared in the Foe-Glasses that spanned the walls of her flat. Had he even for a moment pondered harming her, every room would have erupted in an unholy din of shrieking, beeping, whistling Dark Detectors.

"What are you proposing?" She asked, sitting back down on the tree stump.

"I need to be able to contact you whenever I find out more. You know what to do with what I tell you?"

She nodded. "Moody is head of Intelligence at the Department. He'll be sure that something is done."

"Good." Malfoy sighed, though his shoulders were still tight. "You can't tell them who you heard this from."

Hermione said nothing, but met his eyes quizzically, mutely demanding an explanation.

"Someone will talk. There are spies on both sides. What I'm doing is already dangerous enough."

"How do I contact you?"

"You don't. I'll contact you."

She snorted. "I'd rather not be kidnapped every time you want a chat, Malfoy."

His lips quirked in something very near a smile. "No, I have a better way. Take off your robe."

"What?" Hermione clutched it and retreated. Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"I said your robe, not your clothes. Merlin. It's too cold to go commando, Granger."

He'd picked up a lot of Muggle expressions, she thought grudgingly, and slipped her deep green robe from her shoulders, shivering in the chill. She still wore a jumper and jeans, both a great deal thicker than Malfoy's clothing. He had to be freezing.

"This will burn when I want you to come back here," he said, "and it will protect you from some of the Unforgivable Curses...or at least, decrease their power. I can't do anything about the Killing Curse." He was circling her as he spoke, wand loose in his hand, and he brushed her long hair over her shoulders, baring the back of her jumper. "It won't hurt," he added, and touched his wand to her back. _"Adseropictum Confatalis."_

It didn't hurt, but it was uncomfortable–a heat that built and burrowed, was absorbed into her skin, clung to her spine. Hermione fought not to squirm, clenching her jaw, her arms straight at her sides.

"Why are you doing this? You could just find me. No one's noticed you spying yet."

"They would eventually. This is safer. And I'll take all the safety nets I can get."

Goosebumps broke along her shoulders as his breath stirred her hair, and again, she noticed his proximity: his hand on her shoulder to hold her still, his broad body at her back as his wand hummed. At long last, the wand fell silent, and Draco drew away, stumbling slightly. His face when she turned was inscrutable.

"Lucius Malfoy's precious heir," she said softly.

"Not anymore. Sit back down. There's a lot more you need to know."

_Author's Notes and disclaimers:_

_These characters are obviously not mine. All appropriate obeisance to JK Rowling's brilliance. Applause also to the Harry Potter Lexicon, without which this story would be impossible. Please review–knowing how a story affects my readers is what keeps me writing._


	2. The Binding of the Fates

Halfway through her Auror training, Hermione had developed an appreciation for running.

More than a practicality, it gave her time to think, and with less than three hours until her meeting with Moody, she needed time to think.

Draco had pressed his green and silver prefect's badge into her hand, and she had vanished back to the library with no idea what she would do next.

The cold air slapped at her face like a dash of water, and she felt the badge, a weight in her pocket–the badge that was engraved with Draco's initials in his own neat script, and an odd motto: _nil desperandum. _Never despair.

That the arrogant little boy she had known would secretly engrave such words anywhere threw everything she thought she had known to the four winds. Hermione's mind boggled as she imagined him, sitting in bed long after Crabbe and Goyle's snores had deafened everyone else at dungeon level, nursing whatever hurt and tracing the words there with the tip of his wand.

Maybe not so melodramatic as that.

As skilled as she was at apparation, creating portkeys, and generally moving herself to where she needed to be, the good old-fashioned method of running had saved her more times than any other evasive tactic, and Hermione sped up, stride even, arms pumping

What she would do if Moody needed convincing, she didn't know. Even after all she had seen in Draco's memories, even after his odd behavior, she still had trouble believing herself. He had been believed to be a Death Eater for the past six years, and until now, there had been no evidence to the contrary.

Nothing she had been willing to consider, at any rate. Thinking back, he _had _been different their sixth year; less quick to insult, calmer, not nearly as much of a bully. Oh, there had been times when she had seen that familiar smirk on his face, that drawling voice she loathed, but he had not been the same Draco she had hated for five years.

And when had she started calling him Draco, anyway?

When he had started acting like a human being.

That thought was oddly disturbing, as was the abrupt vision of him in the moonlight, arms extended, turning slowly for her inspection.

Or the sight of him kneeling at her feet, handsome head inclined as he silently bore her scrutiny.

She muttered an oath and ran faster.

Run fast enough, and running itself required concentration. Breathing, balance, step by hurried step, and it was a welcome relief.

The whole thing was the purest insanity. Draco Malfoy, working to bring down the Death Eaters, including his revered father? And she, the widely acknowledged Golden Girl of Gryffindor, meeting him secretly in a forest?

It reeked of a trap, and she wondered uneasily if Draco had somehow learned Occlumency. For the first time in her life, she wished Snape were there, so she could ask if Occlumency merely prevented mind-reading, or if it could put up a shield of protective memories. It would be a useful tidbit of information.

No place like the library for that. This was not at all the Draco she had known. No sneering, no insults, just a terrible intensity...and fear. Draco Malfoy was afraid. And that scared the hell out of her.

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Even after several year's acquaintance, Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody was still an unnerving man.

A younger Hermione might have been wringing her hands; as it was, she merely twisted her fingers on the inside of her pockets, fiddled with the sleeves of her sapphire robe, crossed and uncrossed her legs. She was an irrepressible fidgeter.

Not that Moody was trying to put her at ease; it was his long habit to make his visitors uncomfortable, until they spilled their secrets out of sheer nervousness.

"Who told you all this?" He asked, fixing her with his wildly rotating blue eye.

"They don't want to be named. There are spies on both sides."

"This room is bespelled within an itch of its life, Granger. What's said in here stays in here."

She nodded. "I understand, sir, but I must honor their wishes. I'm not sure what would happen to them if anyone found out, but..."

"Why do you believe what _they–" _Moody grinned over the pronoun– "told you?"

"I read h–_their _mind." Hermione mentally kicked herself. Merlin, if there were a class in lying she would fail it miserably. "They've been spying on the Death Eaters for a long time. I'm still not sure why," she added thoughtfully.

"There wasn't the barest hint of deception? Nothing hidden?"

"Nothing."

As much as Hermione was a fidgeter, Moody was a pacer, and he got up from his desk and did so. Interoffice memos fluttered nervously in their cages as he went by.

Abruptly, Moody threw some floo powder into the fire and stuck his head in.

"Kingsley!"

Hermione couldn't hear the rest of the conversation, but Moody pulled his head back out and shook the ashes out of his hair after only a few minutes.

"Shacklebolt's on his way. If we're going to move more than a dozen of our Aurors to Romania, he'll want to hear why from you."

Hermione nodded and stood, stretching. She'd been closeted with Moody for the better part of two hours, and thought longingly of cigarettes. She'd picked up the habit seventh year and then dropped it when she went into Auror training. The craving never went away, though.

She snorted softly at herself. She'd thought the stress of seventh year–what with NEWTS and Death Eaters hunting down known members of the Order–had justified the vice. She'd had no idea what stress was.

Kingsley Shacklebolt entered a few minutes later and she respectfully remained standing. Kingsley had been appointed Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement last year, and between him, Moody, and the new Minister of Magic, she answered to no one higher.

"Sit, Granger." Shacklebolt said curtly. "Explain."

She did, telling him everything Draco had told her about the artifact. She told him that the Death Eaters had been behind the assassination of Cornelius Fudge–no surprise there–that they were infiltrating various departments within the ministry, that they had several smaller cells specifically tasked with eliminating the Aurors–especially the Dark Wizard Catchers. That they were more organized than ever before, that Voldemort had postponed his ambition to kill Harry until he had found some sort of weapon to make sure the task would be completed. It was a long list, and she was slightly breathless when she was done.

Kingsley looked as surprised as she'd ever seen him. Not very.

"Moody says that your informant doesn't want you to name them."

Hermione shook her head. "They might be playing both sides, sir. I'm not sure."

Moody and Shacklebolt exchanged glances, and Kingsley sat down, rubbing his forehead.

"Dumbledore should know about this, too."

"I'll send Tonks with the message tonight." Moody sat down on the edge of his desk, his wooden leg thudding dully against the surface. "When are you meeting them again, Granger?"

"When they call me," she replied, mystified. They both acted as if her news had been catastrophic, and she ran over it quickly in her mind, trying to figure out which bit could have been so distressing.

"When they call you?" Kingsley echoed, staring at Hermione as if she had finally done something interesting.

She nodded, and remembered belatedly that to explain Draco's method of contacting her might give away who her informant was. She had seen the mark, etched indelibly between her shoulder blades–a tiny silver and green dragon, mouth agape, curving around runes that meant "bad faith." What that meant, she did not know, nor did she know why Draco would mark her with something that was so identifiably him. Perhaps there was no choice with the spell he had used.

"How are they contacting you?"

"I'd rather not say, sir." She said. "The method might give away who they are."

Once again, Moody and Kingsley exchanged glances, and she wondered if she was already telling them more than she should.

"Granger," Kingsley repeated slowly, his voice even more bass than usual. "How are they contacting you?"

By all rights, both Moody and Shacklebolt were privy to everything she knew. As an intelligence officer, she'd signed away the privacy of her own mind, which was part of the reason she'd been forbidden to learn Occlumency. A shame, that–she might have finally become a halfway decent liar.

More than that, the fact that both men had allowed her to hide her informant's identity up to this point showed that they trusted her judgement.

"What is seen in this room stays in this room?" she asked finally, and both nodded. Moody drew the drapes and turned on the lamp on his desk, dodging a stapler that scuttled past his hand.

Reluctantly, Hermione stood and stripped off her robe, holding her t-shirt flat across her belly as she raised the back.

"It's supposed to get hot when they want me to meet them," she explained as Moody prodded the tiny dragon with his wand. "I didn't recognize the spell, and it's not in any book I've read yet."

"It also protects you from some of the Unforgivable Curses," Shacklebolt said, and there was awe in his voice. "That's the _Confatalis_ Mark. Whoever your informant is, Granger, they want you to stay alive. That's a difficult piece of magic."

"Did they explain exactly what that spell did? All of it?" Moody asked, and his voice was far from awed. It was angry. She looked over her shoulder to find Moody clenching his wand tightly in his hand.

"No," she replied uneasily.

"It's not just protection, and it's not just a summons. It's the Binding of Fates, Granger. That's how he–_they _protect you," Moody said, and didn't even trouble to hide his slip of the tongue. _He knows that it's Draco,_ she thought despairingly.

"She didn't give him a mark, Moody," Kingsley said gently, straightening up and gesturing for Hermione to put her robe back on.

"I still don't trust him."

"We never knew for certain."

"We bloody well don't know for certain now!" Moody retorted, reaching for his pipe. "There's bits of Dark Magic all over that mark."

"There's nothing dangerous in it," Kingsley said flatly.

Moody snorted, the glowing coals of his pipe dancing in his eyes.

Hermione had watched them argue with the air of a spectator at a tennis match who had no idea how the game was played.

"What is a Binding of Fates?" She finally demanded. It had taken a while for that particular phrase to sink in, but it had penetrated deeply enough to frighten her.

Both men started, as if they had forgotten she was there. Which they probably had.

"Exactly what it sounds like," Kingsley finally said. "He shares your fate, which is how he protects you. If someone cast a _Cruciatus_ on you, he would take half the pain. And if they cast _Avada Kedavra–"_

"He would die, too," Hermione finished, in a whisper. _Why _would Malfoy do that? Surely there were other ways to contact her. Unless what he was doing was so dangerous that he felt she needed that protection, just for being vaguely involved. Her stomach churned at that thought. "And," she thought aloud, "because I didn't give him the same mark..."

"If he dies, the mark will fade. That's all. You don't share his pain or his fate," Kingsley said, regarding her almost pityingly. "That's an ancient spell, Granger. It was once used as a marriage mark, before there were other, less...stringent...spells."

Hermione suddenly felt the need to sit down, and did so. The fact that it was a marriage mark was of little importance; the fact that she could get Draco killed was uppermost in her mind. Intelligence officers did not exactly have the safest job, and she would likely be one of the dozen Aurors sent to Romania, to search for and protect the artifact, whatever it was. _And it might be permanent, _a little voice whispered in the back of her mind–the little voice that was endlessly caustic and apparently delighted in added to her worries whenever she was ready to dash her brains out because of them.

"Is it permanent?" She asked softly.

"Yes." Moody said around his pipe. "He endangered himself to protect you. And if he's doing what I think he's doing, then he's also likely to get himself killed because of it."

For a wild moment, Hermione wondered if this could possible be the same Draco Malfoy who'd spent five years of his life trying to hex her every time her back was turned. That same small voice in the back of her head was gibbering, _Draco? Malfoy? _As if she had a closetful of Draco Malfoys at her flat, dying to risk their lives for her.

Her jaw was hanging somewhere around her knees, and she closed her mouth. She scarcely heard Moody dismiss her, with instructions to report back if she was contacted again, or in a week's time, whichever happened first.

_The library._ Whenever she was in doubt, whenever the world was spinning madly around her, Hermione went to the library.


	3. The Eye of the Moon

It took three days of searching to find a book that even mentioned the _Confatalis_ Mark, and Hermione was less than pleased when she finally found it in _Archaic Spells of the Western World. _The spell traced all the way back to hunter-gatherer wizards, who used it to protect their wives while they were away, presumably hunting and/or gathering.

That was back when humans were just beginning to access that part of their brains that let them perform magic, thus beginning the separation between Muggles and Wizards. Those who couldn't perform that spell, or any spell, died sooner, so whole tribes were eventually wizards, while humans were still trying to figure out another way to adapt.

Not that that interesting bit of trivia was particularly disturbing.

The fact that the spell could also be used to track emotions and thoughts, as well as peer through the wearer's eyes, was disturbing.

This was _Draco Malfoy. _Whatever he was doing now, whatever self-sacrificing hero he'd turned himself into, she didn't want anyone tracking her emotions or peering through her eyes.

_Summoning spell. Bollocks. _

Hermione shoved the book away from her, cursing under her breath and wishing Harry and Ron were there. She didn't now precisely where they were or what they were doing, which was not anything new. Dark Wizard Catchers were hard to pin down.

Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered that Malfoy said the Death Eaters were actively hunting Dark Wizard Catchers. And known members of the Order of the Phoenix. Harry and Ron were both.

Why it taken her so long to put that bit of information together, she didn't know, and there was nothing she could do about it in any case. A headache was beginning to pulse at her temples as she picked up another book–_Distinguishing Marks, Distinguished Wizards, _by Thelonius Bagby_–_and began to scan its pages.

Actually, the spell in its present form wasn't that old. _The Confatalis Mark regained popularity during the height of the Roman Empire, as the Emperor's priests tried to tie the fate of the Empire to themselves and to their Emperor. _Hmm. Historically speaking, that explained a bit. _Thus, the original spell gained the power to negate all past and future marks..._

That was good and bad. Hermione scowled at the page. Marriage marks weren't a necessity anymore, but she'd always thought vaguely that she would get one when the time came.

Her hand went abruptly to the small of her back and she swore, loud and long.

The Mark of the Phoenix was there, but it wasn't anything more than a regular–albeit moving and shiny–tattoo, now. She'd have to knock to get into Headquarters, and be let in by another member. The door wasn't open to her anymore.

"Thanks, Malfoy," she growled, reading on. At least if someone tried to curse her with an Everlasting Athlete's Foot Mark, she was protected.

_The wizard is essentially pouring their strength, their essence, into the recipient; the mark takes the form of its maker, and is an adjunct to that wizard. A piece of their body marked indelibly on the recipient._

Indelibly. Like gum on the bottom of a shoe. She had a piece of Malfoy stuck to her, forever.

_The incantation itself is simple; however, the effort expended to create the Mark weakens the wizard considerably._

That was why he'd stumbled, then, when the spell was complete. Mister Infernally Graceful had never stumbled before in her presence.

_"The spell requires every bit of the caster's attention, and the casting itself takes two day's preparation. The caster must anoint themselves with a potion consisting of..."_

Gross.

_Meditating solely on the recipient for a period of twenty-four hours..._

She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

And other than historical anecdotes about the use of the _Confatalis_ Mark through the ages, there wasn't much else to learn. With a flick of her wand, Hermione sent the books back to their shelves and buried her face in her hands.

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Her second meeting with Moody had come and gone, and Hermione had yet to be summoned.

It was driving her insane.

It was also something she didn't dare dwell too deeply on, or she would be biting her nails on the incessant thoughts, _Is he hurt? Would I know? Has he been caught? It's been _(fill in the blank) _days!_

Except for the mark on her back, the tiny dragon occasionally belching a fireball or squirming ticklishly between her shoulder blades, she would have thought she'd dreamed the whole thing. That and her three jaunts to Headquarters had dealt a great deal in explanation of why, exactly, she could no longer enter on her own. And Hermione was _so bad _at lying.

Her work was suffering. Not badly, but suffering. The ability to absorb herself completely into her homework had translated nicely into an ability to absorb herself completely in the endless rounds of paperwork, but that gift had left her lately. She kept seeing Draco's face in the glade, seeing how cold he looked, seeing how his ribs jutted, even through that thin shirt he'd been wearing.

On that thought, she went out and bought materials for a cloak and shirt, being fairly sure she could make those without too many horrendous mistakes. Trousers would have been trickier, and she didn't dare buy ready-made men's clothes. A small bit of information it would be, but interested and knowledgeable ears could make something of it.

Twelve endless days passed before the mark began to burn in her back, predictably at the worst possible time.

Susan Bones glanced over at her, concerned, as Hermione suddenly jerked upright with a gasp.

"Are you all right, Hermione?" Everyone else at the table–Lavender, Blaise, Ernie–were staring curiously.

"Oh, yes. Ow. My back fell asleep," Hermione said, trying to smile. "Have to go, see you later–" and retreated hastily from the room, berating herself for the sorry excuse. _My _back _fell asleep? How about, "I pulled a muscle exercising?" Or, "I've got a bruise back there," wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Merlin's beard._

She Apparated back to her flat first, grabbing the shirt and cloak she'd made for Malfoy, as well as a bagful of food that she'd kept ready for the past five days. The little dragon on her back hissed, and it felt as if her skin was trying to crawl off and apparate ahead of her.

"I'm going, I'm going," Hermione snapped at the dragon, who subsided with a puff of flame that singed the baby hairs on the back of her neck. She dug the badge out of her pocket and unwrapped it hastily, letting it fall into the palm of her hand.

Instantly, she was jerked forward into rushing darkness, and staggered as she landed back into the glade. It looked quite different by day, even on a grey and soon-to-be snowy day.

"I have never met such a miserable liar in my life," said Malfoy from behind her. "Christ, Granger."

"Christ?" She echoed. "Exactly how much time have you been spending in the Muggle world, Draco?"

"Too much. Though they've got a colorful way of expressing themselves." His eyes went to the clothes in her arms, and the bag at her back. It was interesting to watch him struggle with his pride. A grunt was all the thanks she got, but it was more than she had expected.

Draco stripped off his shirt immediately when he saw the thick woolen one she had brought him, and Hermione tried–and failed–to avert her eyes, disturbed at how interesting his upper body was to her. She would never have predicted those shoulders, even in sixth year.

Draco was apparently oblivious, riveted first on warmth, then on food, tearing into a chicken leg.

"What is it you're doing, Malfoy?" She asked, sitting down next to him at the base of an ancient oak. "I thought you might be playing both sides, but without the Dark Mark...and I'd think you'd be doing better if you were still friendly with Death Eaters."

"Never friendly," he said with his mouth full. "Just let me eat before you start interrogating me. I haven't had a decent meal in..."

He actually seemed to be considering the question, and apparently decided it wasn't worth answering as he worked his way through a half dozen sandwiches.

Hermione let him eat in silence, studying him as if there should be some outward sign that he was so changed. The same platinum hair, paler than ever by day, though it was wild and straying along his collar, not the careful coif she had once known so well. The same eyes that fluxuated between grey and blue, depending on what he wore, and whether or not he was angry. When he was angry, they flashed silver.

Other than his size–which she supposed was inevitable–there was nothing, and she sat uneasily.

Wiping his mouth finally, he continued. "...And I can't tell you what I'm doing. You should already know that."

"How about why, then?" She replied softly. "We thought you were a Death Eater in training all the way up through sixth year, and assumed you'd gone off to join them when your father escaped from Azkaban."

"Escaped, nothing," Draco grunted. "The bloody Dementors were only too happy to bugger off with them."

"Then tell me. I can't trust you until I know."

However much he had changed, Hermione knew him well enough to see the tension flow into his body, the anger boil up in his face.

"I let you read my mind," he nearly snarled. "I gave you the Mark–"

His mouth clamped shut and he stood, a motion that was animal-like in its grace and rapidity.

"And why did you?"

His eyes flashed back at her again, shuttered. She doubted she could have read his mind even if she tried.

"Ask me again later," he said finally. "Thank you for the food."

"You're welcome."

That was an impasse, and predictably, Draco went back to business. It was the same thing Hermione did when she was at a loss: stick with the task at hand.

"The artifact is called the Eye of the Moon, or Diana's Pearl," he said, sitting on the same tree stump Hermione had inhabited during their last tête á tête. "It magnifies power. Tremendously. The last place it was seen was in Greece, just as they were falling to Macedonia. Legend says that it was smuggled north, and then lost."

"So how do they expect to find it?"

Draco shrugged, the shirt tight across his shoulders and chest. Too small, but better than nothing, she supposed, so long as it didn't rip. "Research. Hard work and dedication," he said sarcastically. "How else would they find it?"

Touché.

"More to the point, then," Hermione snapped, irritated, "how do you expect us to stop them?"

"How the fuck should I know?" He snapped back. "Do you want me to go fetch it for you? Plan out your next strike against Death Eater Headquarters? Tell you where the Amazon Girdle is?"

"You're not being terribly helpful," she groused. Unfairly, she admitted. The new Malfoy scared her, and intrigued her, which frightened her even more. It was hard to go from abject hatred to collaboration.

As before, Malfoy simply swallowed up his anger, forced it away from his eyes and face.

"I'm doing the best I can," He said finally. Which was a more thorough rebuke than if he'd insulted her.

"I know."

"They're planning a strike against the Aurors. Soon. And you might want to consider changing guards at the Headquarters of the Order. Tell Dumbledore the caretaker is wavering."

"You know about the Order?"

The look he gave her was vintage Malfoy, the one that said,_ and you've managed to breathe _and_ walk with that teeny, tiny little brain?_ Hermione hastily moved on. "What caretaker?"

"If Dumbledore wanted you to know, he would have told you, sweeting."

"Does Dumbledore know about you?" Hermione demanded, shocked.

He shrugged again. "Not that I know of, but there are ways and ways."

The whole conversation made her want to hide her face and stop her ears, because she was only getting half the information on any given subject. It was maddening.

"What you need to understand," he said, suddenly harsh, "is that the Death Eaters don't only operate by violence. They bribe, they trick, they blackmail. So everyone you think is so right, so committed, just might be hiding something. Everyone has secrets. Sometimes it's not hard to find out what they are."

"Does the new Draco speak only in riddles, or is he capable of just saying what he knows, and why he decided to find out in the first place?" Hermione retorted. "Your guessing games are getting old, Malfoy."

"I'm trying to keep you _alive," _he spat, "and as far out of trouble as possible. Read between the lines. If you can figure it out, then you should have been told in the first place. If you can't, you don't need to know."

_"Why are you doing this?" _Hermione nearly shrieked, fists clenched at her sides to keep from trying to shake the information out of him. "You're Draco Malfoy! You're a Slytherin! What epiphany have you had? Or did someone switch bodies with you?"

"Don't," Draco growled. "Hermione–"

The fact that he'd called her by her first name didn't register. She was too busy shouting at him, terrible things that would make her cringe, years later, to remember. All the humiliation and insults he'd heaped on her at Hogwarts were making the blood bubble in her veins–that, and a very real fear of and for him. It wasn't a game they were playing, it was war, and he was taking it all so cavalierly–_sweeting?_

The old Draco would have lashed out at her, maybe even hit her, and she could see him almost vibrating with rage. But he stood and did nothing, said nothing, stared down at her with flashing eyes until she almost hit him herself, just to make him react.

At last, he spun on his heel and began to stalk away toward the edge of the trees.

"What are you doing?" She demanded.

_"Leaving."_ He said coldly.

"You–Malfoy..." _Eat your crow, Hermione, _jeered the little voice in the back of her head. _Every last bite. _"Draco, I'm sorry."

He was not mollified.

He turned, and his approach was predatory, his face tight with anger. Around the flashing eyes, she could see the marks of who knew what battles–a line bisecting one pale eyebrow, four smaller marks on his left temple that looked almost like claw marks. Apparently they were only obvious when he was in a temper. As he was now.

"You want to know?" He asked, his voice deceptively mild. "You want to know why I marked you, why I'm spying on them, why I'm willing to have my father killed to end this? Why I gave up all my money, my birthright, why I left in the middle of sixth year?"

"Draco–"

"Calling me Draco is not going to save your...precious...little...hide." One large hand rose, caught her shoulder, as the other thumbed along her throat. She was paralyzed, staring at him like a rabbit before the fox. Or just about any small, helpless animal before the wolf. Might as well be apropos in her analogies. "You wanted to know why–?"

He bent abruptly and kissed her. She could not have been more shocked than if he'd stabbed her. Actually, she almost expected him to stab her.

A bruising kiss, harsh and enraged, that ground her lips against her teeth, forced her mouth open. Hermione made a small sound in her throat and tottered on suddenly unsteady legs.

He caught her with something very close to a growl, pressing her up against him, bending over her until she felt her spine would snap. Her arms wanted, very naturally, to reach up and wind around his neck, but hung uselessly at her sides.

_"That," _he said against her mouth, "is why. Make sure you tell Dumbledore yourself. Don't trust anyone else with a message."

With a _crack, _he was gone.


	4. Ghosts of the Past

He'd _kissed _her.

Hermione Apparated back to her flat and rummaged twenty minutes for a cup before she forced herself to breathe, stop, think. There. In the same place they always were. Momentarily, as she gulped her milk, she wished she had a few butterbeers. A curious knot of dread...and excitement...was twisting in her belly.

For perhaps the fiftieth time, she swiped at her lips with the back of her hand. It didn't help. She could still feel his lips there as if she'd been branded.

_"Ugh."_

She said it aloud, just for emphasis.

It was bad, all bad. Hopeless. The world should have crashed and burned the instant he bent over her. Draco Malfoy had kissed Hermione Granger. Perhaps Voldemort would appear next, and announce that his new life's ambition was salsa dancing, rather than world domination.

Hermione glared at her cup, as if it was at fault.

Truth to tell, more than the utter shock, she felt guilty. He had let her read his mind. She had seen nothing of deceit there. And having thoroughly researched Occlumency, she knew there was no way he could have shown her false memories. Occlumency could be used to block the reading of memories and nothing more, or less. He had been telling her the truth, and she had burned his ears with a childish grudge.

And then _he'd kissed her._

Well, well.

Hermione abruptly felt the need to sit down and did so, turning on her stereo with a flick of her wand, just to fill the silence. Glenda Chittock's throaty voice murmured nonsense, followed by the newest hit by the Dark Hags, thrumming moodily, which suited her perfectly.

Rather than continue flagellating herself with her abominable behaviour, Hermione instead tried to piece together the bits of information Draco was feeding her, which was no easy task. As one of the top intelligence officers at the mystery, she was cleared further than Minister Bowles himself for a great deal of information, but who was this caretaker? And what hold would the Death Eaters have on him or her? So far as she knew, Molly Weasley chiefly maintained the Headquarters of the Order. Molly had lost two brothers, long ago, to the Death Eaters. Molly was one of the _least _wavering people Hermione knew.

Not her, then. Who?

Hannah Abbot?

New to the Order, and she did spend a great deal of time at Headquarters. But the Hufflepuff girl had been good friends with Neville Longbottom, who still lay in his coma at St. Mungo's, neither better nor worse than the day Harry and Ron had staggered into the hospital with him.

The song by the Black Hags ended, and the Weird Sisters came on. _Played out,_ she thought absently, flipping stations.

On the other hand, hadn't Peter Pettigrew been lifelong friends with James Potter and Sirius Black, and nevertheless betrayed James, Lily, and Harry himself to their deaths? That Harry had survived was a minor point; and more miracle than anything else.

It might be Hannah, Hermione admitted grudgingly. Point of fact, there were many new members in the Order, and for all that Dumbledore had looked into their minds, Hermione could not completely trust all of them. For that same Peter Pettigrew had evaded detection by Dumbledore long enough to seriously damage the first Order.

If only Draco had just _told _her who the caretaker was, Hermione groused. Didn't he trust her?

And that was a rather unfair question, given her mistrust of him.

Leaving that puzzle for the moment–or that part of the puzzle, at any rate–Hermione wondered what it was that Draco was protecting her from. The Death Eaters, obviously; that was why he had given her the Mark. But why the secrecy? And what went on in the Order that she didn't know about? Having joined promptly on reaching her majority, Hermione was more a veteran than almost any other new member.

There was probably quite a lot that went on that she wasn't privy to, Hermione admitted, though it galled her at some control-freak level.

And the protection was likely to keep any Death Eater spies or operatives within the Order from uncovering her–and by extension, Draco. Reporting directly to Dumbledore and giving her a minimum of information to tell him likely kept her from effectively nosing around.

Hermione smiled unwillingly. Draco knew her well enough to know that nosing around was a bad habit going back to her first year at Hogwarts.

Again, her fingers touched her lips, more thoughtful than repulsed.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Snow fell lightly as Hermione approached the creaking gate and let herself into the shadowy front gardens that splayed beautifully before the wide stone stoop. But she had no eye for beauty just now; her body was tense and her wand held at the ready as she made her way up the icy garden path. Her eyes flicked toward the shadows as she watched, alert for the slightest indication that something was wrong.

In the weeks that had passed since she had received the _Confatalis _Mark, Hermione had learned there was more to fear than merely the man who peered through her eyes, listened through her ears. The Mark had rendered the phoenix mark of the Order little more than a pretty tattoo, and she would have to knock on the heavy door of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place to be let in...

And hope desperately that the twins had yet to settle on any particular plan of attack. Her inability to enter Headquarters had opened wide new vistas of entertainment for them. Though she had no doubt her newfound paranoia was entertaining enough in the meantime.

Steeling herself, Hermione climbed the steps with the air of a sheep going voluntarily to the slaughter, and lifted the brass doorknocker. She let it fall twice before she retreated, ignoring dignity entirely.

The door opened abruptly and Molly Weasley stood, framed by the flickering light of the gas lamps within. It took her a moment to spot Hermione in the semi-gloom.

"They're not here, Hermione." Molly snorted and stood back, allowing Hermione into the foyer. "And you know I wouldn't let them play any of their ridiculous pranks on you."

Mrs. Weasley's success on that score had historically been mixed, Hermione thought dryly, discarding coat and boots and shaking melting snowflakes from her hair.

After a hurried kiss on the cheek and a murmured something about stew boiling over, Mrs. Weasley hurried back toward the kitchen, leaving Hermione to her own devices. From the foyer, the central room opened on ells and spiral staircases, a wider staircase curving from a long line of balconies on the second floor. As was their custom, however, the members of the Order present had gathered before the hearth . The chairs arcing around the wide fireplace were comfortingly reminiscent of the seating in Gryffindor Tower, at Hogwarts.

"I _told _you," Ginny said scathingly to the top of a dark head as she moved to embrace Hermione. "She's been busy, not dead."

Dean Thomas turned in his chair to catch Hermione and plant a kiss on her lips in passing, grinning at his wife as he did so.

"My wife," he said, with all the pride and pomposity of a newlywed, "has absolutely no sense of humour."

Finding no safe reply, Hermione grinned and sat down near the fire, wiggling her fingers over the blaze to thaw them, and gazing appreciatively, as was her habit, at the renovation of what had once been a thoroughly disreputable home. It had taken a long time to talk Harry into maintaining it as Headquarters, rather than burning it to the ground and sowing the ashes with salt, but the results were worth it.

Nodding greetings to those gathered, Hermione paused at the somewhat cooler welcome from Hannah Abbot, measuring the blonde's pale blue eyes sharply. Something of deceit, of secrecy? It was difficult to tell. Hannah was a skilled Occlumens.

There would be time, Hermione thought, returning Hannah's stare, equally expressionless. Dumbledore would know of the 'wavering caretaker' in short order, and would know her suspicions. Of course, Hermione admitted, Hannah had never been particularly overzealous in welcoming anyone.

And truth be told, assessing Hannah was only part of her reason for braving the dangers of Fred and George's notorious pranks. With no better company in her own flat than an aging and crochety Crookshanks, and less than comforting thoughts–fine, _guilty _thoughts, Hermione snapped internally–the small flat had become downright clausterphobic.

She had yet to reconcile _Draco _with _Malfoy._

"Zees Eenglish wintairs," Fleur Weasley, née Delacour, was saying airily. "I 'ope one day to take Bill with me 'ome, but 'e will not come."

Fleur's English had improved; her accent had not.

Bill grinned appreciatively at his wife, and cuffed her affectionately.

"Because the French _wintairs_," he remarked, "are lacking entirely in good English food, m'dear. As a matter of fact, I understand there is a shortage for most of the year."

"And 'e _must _have the Eenglish food," Fleur retorted, rolling her eyes.

For a wild moment of utter insanity, Hermione pictured herself in Fleur's place, with Draco beside her. Her mind boggled at the thought.

_"C'est un homme,"_ Hermione said, winking at Bill by way of distracting herself. _"Il pense avec le ventre."_

"Like any true man," He said sagely. "And the belly says that the stew will be ready very soon. The nose agrees."

_"Imbécile," _said Fleur fondly, and rewarded him for it with a kiss.

Another moment of wild insanity seized Hermione, and she stared at the carpet, willing everyone to ignore any telltale colour in her cheeks. It was the heat from the fire, and nothing at all to do with some sudden downward spiral into lunacy.

This was _Malfoy,_ she reminded herself brutally, loading the name with all the contempt she could muster. Her sworn enemy for most of her academic career. The thorn in her side. The pain in her ass. The pebble in her shoe. The bit of gristle in her teeth.

_The Amazing Bouncing Ferret,_ she added, bringing out the big guns. The back half of her mind still wasn't convinced.

"Hermione, Ginny, Fleur? Would you mind helping me with the last bits?" Molly called from the kitchen, and Hermione stood with alacrity, more than eager to think of something else.

Ducking a flying potato peeler as she entered, Hermione flicked her wand at the sauce simmering on the stove and sent plates, cups, and utensils flying to the table, guessing that a baker's dozen of people would eventually turn up for dinner. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she noted that the hands for Harry and Ron were marked firmly on _carousing._ Hermione turned away with a snort of laughter. Yes, Moody was certainly keeping them busy.

On that thought, Hermione added a few more place settings to the table. Many of the Old Guard had taken to dining at Headquarters, especially now that the dark objects had been taken away, and mostly destroyed.

Or, she added somberly, because many of them faced empty homes, and a long line of ghostly faces in their memories.

Across the kitchen, between the door to the pantry and the steps to the cellar, pictures of the first Order and the current Order hung on the wall. It was no less chilling for Hermione than it had been for Harry to stare at the happy faces of those who had no idea what fate held...faces long dead, long buried, their memories carried in the hearts of every witch and wizard that bore the mark of the phoenix. On the left, the smiling faces of Frank and Alice Longbottom; the cooler faces of Gideon and Fabian Prewett, Molly's brothers; so many others that had fought Voldemort and paid with their lives. Harry's parents not the least of them.

And the newer picture: the Weasley twins making faces at the back of Percy's head; Harry and Ron, swelling with pride, their arms over Hermione's shoulders. Neville Longbottom, his formerly round face harder than she remembered–but then, for all his ineptitude, Neville's determination made him a formidable adversary. Or had. Professor McGonagall, of course. Mundungus Fletcher, a shady character if there ever was one, who nevertheless died a hero. Died a hero–as if the dead cared about posthumous hero-status.

Thoughts of Draco were making her morbid. Nonetheless, Hermione felt a premonitory shiver as she looked at the pictures. A glimpse of mortality, not only her own, but of every member of the Order, every Auror. Anyone who resisted the twisted doctrine of Voldemort, really. Though innocence was no claim to safety, either.

The memories Draco had shown her were proof of that.

And that was where the line between _Draco _and _Malfoy_ was drawn, wasn't it? Between her memories of him and his own. He'd shown her glimpses of what had made him the man he was. Why did she cling so hard to her own memories, when she knew better?

Because she was afraid.

Hermione heaved a sigh of relief and wandered over to give the stew a stir. There. She had said it. Or thought it, at any rate. She was afraid of the man he had become, and afraid of the feelings he stirred in her.

Which was so trite, she poked the stew viciously.

Trite, but true.

"Now, dear," Molly said, swooping by Hermione with a quick kiss for her cheek, "I think I know why you've stayed away."

"Why I've–what?"

Mrs. Weasley smiled knowingly, and took the spoon from Hermione's less-than-helpful fingers. "You have a young man," she said, taking care that Ginny and Fleur couldn't hear.

Hermione said the first thing that popped into her head, which was likely not the most intelligent thing to do.

"Do you read minds?" she demanded, and felt colour rising clear to her hairline.

"I read faces, and yours had thoughts flying over it." Mrs. Weasley laughed affectionately at Hermione's chagrin. "Treat him well, my dear. Try not to think him to death."

"You could put Trelawney out of business."

Molly, in the midst of sampling the stew, wrinkled her nose at Hermione and flicked a dusting of salt over the richly bubbling soup.

"I just know you."

"No, I'm just too honest for my own good," Hermione groused, and stole the soup spoon back. "Any halfway intelligent person would have denied it."

Mrs. Weasley stifled her laughter.

"I'll be silent as the grave," she said, and unwillingly, Hermione's eyes went back to the pictures on the walls.

And thought, again, of Draco. And what his warnings might mean.

_Author's Notes:_

_Nervous about this chapter. This was added after the entire story was finished, in the interest of "sewing up a plot hole." Of course, the more I rewrite, the more plot holes and opportunities for expansion I see, dammit. I would really, really appreciate reviews on this chapter. Specifically, does the tone match previous chapters? If you've read this story before, can you tell this chapter was added later, or does it seem to fit?_

_And one of my reviewers asked me if I speak Latin or if I have a translator. No, sadly, I don't. I use the translation site from the University of Notre Dame and just sort of wing it. A latin major would probably tear their hair out if they read this. But then, JK Rowling makes up her latin, so I'm following in distinguished footsteps._

_Oh, and my bad French, in case you couldn't figure it out in context, was "He's a man. He thinks with the belly." Haven't taken French since high school, so I'm shifty on the grammar. Forgive me, native speakers. I never make fun of anyone's English. (So long as it's not their first language.)_


	5. Immobulus

A week after Hermione's epiphany at Number Twelve, Hannah Abbot was gone.

And Dumbledore was being even more close-mouthed than normal. Hermione had taken Hannah's departure as a confirmation of her suspicions, but Dumbledore looked mildly alarmed at the words, "wavering caretaker"—a phrase Hermione was getting heartily sick of for the multitude of details it omitted—and resolved to deal with the problem.

Meaning, in Hermione's mind, that Hannah had not been the problem.

It left her furrowing her brow in the midst of several sleepless nights. If not Hannah, then who?

One of two puzzles she had yet to solve, and puzzles had a way of picking at the back of her mind whenever it wasn't otherwise occupied. The other puzzle obviously being the puzzle of her informant. Spy. Former nemesis. Well, more Harry's nemesis than hers, Hermione having been more of an incidental casualty in their cold war.

Though after three weeks of silence from Draco, she was wondering if she had offended him enough that he would avoid her in spite of whatever information he had. No. Whatever else he was, Draco would never let personal feelings get in the way of his goal.

Hermione kicked at a snowdrift as she walked back to her flat, rather enjoying the brisk air in her face. Enjoying the polite nodding of strangers and even the appreciative, if mildly insulting, whistle from one of the carpenters at a nearby construction site.

In spite of worry, in spite of guilt and a burning desire to get an apology to Draco sometime before she died of old age, there was the kiss.

It preyed on her in a way that was both pleasant and unpleasant; for it was a very good kiss, if she were going to be fair about it. The fact that it came from Malfoy still shook her considerably–but no, it came from _Draco,_ she thought.

Unwillingly, she smiled at the memory, momentarily forgetting the nasty scene that had preceded it.

Typing the combination into the cipher lock of her building, she jogged up the steps rather than taking the lift, lighthearted despite her worry, and let herself into her apartment.

From the hallway, she had heard nothing. As soon as the door closed behind her, noise assaulted her, the shrieking, whooping, beeping din of her Dark Detectors. In the Foe-Glass across the room, masked figures moved, lurked, shadowed forbiddingly, though their eyes glinted through the eye sockets of the dark coverings they wore.

Training, bless the days she had spent under the harsh voices and critical eyes of her instructors, instantly took over.

Her wand in her hand, Hermione hexed the door and barred the windows, adding an Anti-Apparation barrier to the whole building. The amount of energy that took staggered her, but she recovered quickly, temples pulsing with the effort. Crossed to the Foe-Glass and kept the wall at her back, hearing through it the failed blast of a _Displodo _Charm. Her heart leapt to her throat at the sound.

It was impossible to identify any of them through their masks, and Hermione cursed, snatching another mirror off the wall. Any Muggle entering the room would have thought her impossibly vain, but the only mirror that actually reflected her face was in her bathroom, and was usually used to make sure she wouldn't disgrace the Ministry on any given day.

"Dumbledore," she said clearly, and shuddered as another explosion rocked the apartment beside hers. She wondered what they had done to the Mrs. Bourne, the aged, motherly Muggle that lived there.

It seemed an eternity before Dumbledore's crooked-nosed visage appeared in the glass.

"Miss Granger."

"Death Eaters." She said crisply, overriding any other greeting. "Next door. I've warded my apartment, but I don't know what they've done to the Muggle that lives there. They probably killed her."

It was worse to say it out loud. She had liked Mrs. Bourne, as far as she had known the woman; deprived of her own grandparents at an early age, Hermione had rather enjoyed the weekly offerings of oatmeal raisin cookies and unsolicited admonishments.

"Stay there. I'll send some members of the Order to you, and alert Moody. Do _not,"_ Dumbledore added swiftly, reading her distaste for the instructions, "attempt to fight them yourself, Miss Granger. How many do you see in your Foe-Glass?"

"Half a dozen," she admitted, and snapped around as something heavy thudded into the wall next door. "What–?"

With another flick of her wand, she silenced her Dark Detectors and listened.

"Did someone already get here?" She demanded, whirling back to Dumbledore. Who looked as startled as she.

"No, Moody just now received my message. Are you certain..."

A yell, and a curse, as someone else struck heavily, and the thud as they hit the ground.

"Tell Moody to send Obliviators as well," she said hastily. "I have to go, Professor. If someone's here, I can't let them die because of me."

As Mrs. Bourne likely already had, Hermione thought bitterly, cutting Dumbledore off mid-word. Bad form, but he would understand.

Dispelling the wards, Hermione Apparated into the apartment next door and ducked a curse immediately, taking cover behind the sofa and firing back.

"Stupid! Stupid!" A voice shouted furiously behind her, and hauled her out of the way as the couch exploded.

There wasn't time for further remonstrance, and Hermione shrugged out of his grip and sent an Impediment Jinx into the midst of the writhing shadows across the room, catching a Death Eater in the middle of his barrel chest. The man keeled over, and two more Death Eaters sprang up to take his place. Cooly, Hermione aimed and fired again.

_"Stupefy!"_

_"Protego! Immobulus!"_

Cursing internally, Hermione lunged to one side as the blue light of the Freezing Charm flew at her, rolling ahead of a flurry of curses.

_"Eversum!" _She shouted, and the dining table flipped up to shield her long enough to regroup.

The man who had snatched her away from the sofa lunged over the top of the overturned table and stared at her, grey eyes glinting through the holes in his mask. Not a Death Eater's mask, but a costume mask. Sequins glittered.

"Are you done staring?" He asked sarcastically, and she recognized the dulcet tones of an angry Malfoy.

"Quite," she retorted. She could laugh at the sequins later. By unspoken agreement, Draco lunged around one side of the table and Hermione took the other, aiming a Displodo Charm at the Death Eaters' feet. Turnabout was fair play, and confident in their superior numbers, the Death Eaters had not sought shelter. And paid for it; an instant before the Displodo charm struck, Hermione heard Draco hiss a curse. One of the Death Eaters was neatly bisected by the nearby telly as the glass wrenched from its front and spun in a devastating arc, finally shattering against the wall.

Hermione flinched as Mrs. Bourne's hardwood floors buckled and blew out, sending splinters in all directions. One of the Death Eaters bore the brunt of the explosion, the wooden splinters as deadly as shrapnel. Between the man on the floor--_splinched,_ she thought vaguely--and the ruined legs of the man unfortunate enough to have been standing precisely where the Displodo Charm had struck, she was going to have new and interesting nightmares for quite some time.

Cursing and screaming, the Death Eater departed, before she could move to stop him. _He left his leg_, she thought, and stifled a giggle. He would miss it.

An arm caught around her waist and pulled her effortlessly behind the table.

"Go low," Draco hissed in her ear, and shoved her back to the corner.

Without time to question or try to guess his plan, Hermione obeyed, refocusing herself as she scooted hastily around the table to the buffet and fired a volley of Impediment Jinxes. The table exploded a second later, and she flung her arms up over her face, splinters driving painfully into her forearms. That explosion also caught the draperies, and the overly flowery velvet burst into flame.

_"Fuck!"_ came clearly from her left, but Hermione had no time to look as she scooted away. The flames were already starting to lick at the runner across the top of heavy buffet. Smoke rapidly filled the small flat, obscuring Death Eaters who were already nearly invisible in the lengthening shadows.

Through the smoke and the growing roar of the fire, Hermione heard the _cracks _as the Death Eaters disApparated. Standing, she doused the flames swiftly and mentally cursed herself into oblivion for not thinking to add an Anti-_dis_Apparation barrier to her building. They had attacked her in her home. There was something unacceptably personal about that.

_"Flaborum,"_ she said, and coughed. The window snapped open and a short burst of wind blasted through the flat, taking the smoke with it. As the room cleared, she saw Draco half-bent over the still form of Mrs. Bourne.

"The Muggle isn't dead. Just Stupefied, not that it did her any good. What–_goddammit!_"

Mrs. Bourne's Jack Russell terrier bounded out of the hallway, where he had wisely been cowering. He caught the hem of Draco's trousers and yanked furiously, growling. Half-amused, Hermione watched Draco struggle with the beast for a second before she bent and picked Herbert up, soothing him into silence.

"Damn dog." Waving his wand, Draco warded the apartment and ripped off his mask, wiping perspiration from his forehead.

"I hate this thing," he muttered, and surveyed her forbiddingly with his pale eyes. "It's not because of me," he said flatly. "They didn't know it was me; they didn't hear me speak until you popped in."

"If you think I'm going to apologize for that–"

"No," he said, and grinned wolfishly. "You could no more stay out of trouble than you could hang yourself. You're an Auror, and a member of the Order. A Death Eater that catches you could have any reward for the asking."

"How much do they know about the Order?"

He sobered abruptly. "Enough. They know most of the members. Most of which are only alive through 'constant vigilance,' but you'll be seeing a shift in that, soon."

"How soon?"

He shrugged, and bent beside Mrs. Bourne, placing his hand on the middle of her chest and listening intently, eyes closed. Herbert growled warningly.

"She has a weak heart," he said softly. "Best call the Muggle whatchamacallits."

"Doctors?"

"Yes, those. Just tell them she fainted; I'll make her sleep."

"How did you know?" Hermione asked. "How did you know they were coming? Did you overhear something?"

"I see through your eyes," he said gently. "Not all the time, but I am watching. If you're in trouble, I will know it."

_And I'll come._ The unspoken promise hung in the air.

"You're bleeding," Hermione said awkwardly, bending down beside him and releasing Herbert with a stern order to behave himself.

"So are you."

"Just a flesh wound," she said, trying to make light of it. "Monty Python," she added, as he stared at her blankly, and Hermione rolled her eyes. "You're British, for Merlin's sake, you aristocratic creature. Hold still."

He obeyed, but the sounds that rumbled through his chest as she plucked the splinters from his cheek sounded remarkably like Herbert's growling.

The scars at his left eyebrow and temple were easier to see, now that she was closer; not claw marks, she thought absently, as she worked at the splinters. Fingernails? She remembered the brief glimpse in his memory, weeks ago; Draco's memory of seeing his face reflected in the mirror of a hotel bathroom, when the marks were still raw and bloody. Did she really want to know?

No. No, not really. Draco hissed a breath as she pulled the last and largest splinter from his jaw, and Hermione stood too quickly and spoke too rapidly.

"Essence of murtlap will relieve the pain and stinging," she said, scooping Herbert back up under the pretense of protecting Draco from the wily beast. Dogs were so convenient for that, she thought, hiding her face in the back of his neck. Crookshanks would have hissed and squirmed away.

Though Herbert was not making a convincing show of threat. His eyes were on Mrs. Bourne, resting peacefully now that Draco had made her sleep, and the little dog was whimpering softy. Draco took advantage of the dog's dismay to catch Hermione's arm and examine the slivers just above her elbow.

"I'll take care of it," She said, and pulled away from his intriguing touch. "I'm fine. Moody and the others will be coming any minute now."

"So I'd better go," he said coldly, turning away from her and easily picking Mrs. Bourne up from the floor, his face utterly closed as he gently put the old woman in a somewhat battered, but still whole, armchair.

"Draco, why are you doing this?" It was a Herculean effort to keep her voice low and level, but Hermione managed it. "Why do you care if this Muggle dies? Why do you care if Voldemort wins?" _Why do you care so terribly much about me?_

"When I could just leave her to die? Or leave all of you to die?" He asked. That same white rage was in his face as he straightened, though something other than anger bled through when he looked at her. "Good questions, Granger. I'll ponder them. You can tidy up on your own, I think."

"Draco..."

He was already gone.

"I _hate _it when he does that," she informed Herbert, and stared at the shambles of the flat. 'Tidy up,' indeed. "That went…badly," she said aloud, and was startled to find herself near tears. Why? Why did it mean so much to her that she hurt him?

She _had_ hurt him. With her suspicion, and with her refusal to let the past go. Was she such a small person that she would hold a childish grudge against this man? Merlin, Hermione thought, she hoped not.

Hermione glanced again at Mrs. Bourne, and noticed that Draco had carefully replaced the old woman's spectacles before he left.

That was it. The straw that broke the camel's back. The pixie that killed the giant, and all other appropriate adages. Malfoy, the pale, cruel boy who had never missed an opportunity to throw Hermione's Muggle parents in her face, crumpled up and vanished, left to the past, where he belonged.

Closing her eyes, Hermione followed Draco where he had gone, marking the place in her memory. A difficult, but fundamental skill for an Auror, was to track their prey. Death Eaters were forever Apparating the instant they started to lose. No progress would ever have been made if Aurors couldn't follow them.

No progress would be made here, Hermione thought, as the other Aurors finally arrived and banged furiously on the warded door, if she didn't follow Draco.

Though the idea of progress was still a frightening, frightening thing.

_Author's Notes_

_Less nervous about this chapter, but it is also new. Same questions, then, as to whether it matched the tone of the other chapters. Hopefully I fixed the repetition issue in the last chapter, Kazfeist, and thanks for pointing it out. There's a difference between emphasis and repetitive._

_I have yet to find anything that really narrows down the difference between Apparation and disApparation (or any consistent way of spelling the latter, so forgive me if I occasionally capitalize the 'd'.) I figure Apparation is when you get to a place, and disApparation is when you leave that same place. Dunno. JK Rowling made a distinction, but as far as I know, hasn't clarified. I'm treating them as mildly different spells, and thus the counter-spells would be different._

_Thanks very much for your reviews; I love reading what others think of my writing, Please keep reviewing, especially as I make changes; I really want to know whether the changes were necessary in your opinion, and if they're effective. And as importantly, if I accidentally pull information from the older chapters and repeat them in the new ones. If you haven't read this story before, just let me know if I'm telling you the same thing, over and over. That gets tedious real quick, I know._


	6. Nil Desperandum

The lights of the hotel glimmered before him, and Draco was grinding his teeth as he approached.

A shabby hotel. A _Muggle _hotel. Granted, the last place anyone on earth would look for him, but he spent more time killing insects than he did sleeping.

The bint at the front desk was the same seventeen year-old who had been making cow's eyes at him since the night he checked in, and he muttered a reply to her bright, incessant questions as he strode down a dingy hallway to his room. To be fair, the girl wasn't that bad; it was that usually, after a hard night–or in this case, a highly aggravating evening–he was in no mood to answer questions.

For what was likely the millionth time, he wondered what else he could have done, all those years ago in Hogwarts. The anger, the hatred, the mistrust–worst of all, the hurt–in Hermione's face haunted him. That day in the glade...and just now...

He still saw no other way to keep everyone from guessing what it was he was planning to do. Had been planning to do, really, for most of his life. Get out. Make it all stop.

True, he was not terribly fond of Potter. Weasley got on his nerves. But most of it had been a show, a never-ending masquerade for his father, the redoubtable, almighty, goddamned King of all Wizardry, Lucius Malfoy. Of all the people Draco dealt with, Lucius must first and foremost never suspect. And Lucius hadn't, for a long, long time.

It had gotten so that it almost _was _Draco, to say such cruel things, to torment for the seeming pleasure of it. It was an effort to pull himself out of it, to remember why he did what he did. It was in the midst of such an effort that he'd carved _nil desperandum _into the back of his prefect's badge. So he wouldn't forget.

When Lucius was captured after the abortive attack at the Ministry, Draco had thought it was over. He'd breathed. Yes, Voldemort still lived, but Draco no longer had to pretend. He could take off the mask.

It was a long, long road, and he got tired just thinking of it.

His room smelled of mildew and Draco did his damnedest to ignore it, stripping off his clothes, pausing to admire the slightly too-small shirt Hermione had given him. Thick wool, dark blue, warm as toast and made by her own hands. Or magic. Either way, it was well done.

The shower didn't smell much better than the rest of the place, and the water was thick with sediment, but it was better than nothing, and this evening's activities had left him a bit worse for wear. Kicking off his boxers, he turned on the water and endured the icy downpour. It took forty-five minutes for the water to heat up, and he intended to be asleep in his hopefully insect-free bed long before then.

Shower time was thinking time, and as usual, his thoughts were of the girl that haunted his thoughts more thoroughly than ghosts haunted Hogwarts. Hermione. Muggle-born. Mudblood. Infuriating know-it-all.

He was completely hopeless. Lost.

And he talked to himself in the most disgusting romance-novel platitudes whenever he thought about her. She was everything he was not. Forthright, honest, selfless, fair, defender of all that was right and good...

Whereas he usually acted in his own interests. Even in this–spying, risking his neck for every little tidbit of information that came his way–he was serving Draco Malfoy. He saw no point of joining the losing side of any war, and whether Lucius realized it or not, the Death Eaters were on the losing side. The good guys always won, eventually.

It also helped that the sane good guys vastly outnumbered the sane bad guys. There were a few that were as coldbloodedly calculating as Lucius. Not many. Most were bloodthirsty cretins, easily ordered about, easily led, easily disposed of. It was a shame that his father's cunning was overruled by his paranoia and relentless bigotry. Draco had lived too many years among Muggle-borns and halfbloods to fully believe they were inferior. Hell, Granger had creamed him annually on every exam. If she was supposed to be inferior, what did that make him?

The cold water beaded and ran on his broad chest, and he was surprised there were no icicles forming. The water was frigid.

Muttering imprecations, he stepped out of the shower and dried off with a towel that didn't cover anywhere near enough of him. He knotted it tightly at his waist and had a quick dry shave, using the dregs of his shaving potion to relieve the sting and keep the skin smooth. It was a neat trick to dodge the clotting pinpricks the splinters had left, and he wished to Merlin someone would invent a potion that prevented the hair from growing at all. Shaving was an almighty pain in the ass.

Draco snapped off the water and froze.

The television was on.

He hadn't turned the television on.

Television, as it happened, was his favorite Muggle device. Even though this particular television had a set of rabbit ears that required him to assume contortionist positions to catch a channel decently, and watch _Charmed. _What a joke that show was.

Picking his wand up off the back of the toilet, Draco eased the bathroom door open. He hated to face trouble without any pants on.

The room was dark, except for the flickering of television; silent except for the laugh track on the sitcom.

A small shadow stood on the side of the room, and he was an inch from hexing it–

"Draco?"

"Hermione? _Lumos."_

The bedside lamp flickered on and he stared at the girl, who was predictably wringing her hands.

Now that she was here, Hermione thought dryly, it was a lot more difficult to say what needed to be said.

"I'm sorry," she said, before he could pick one of a hundred questions. "I was horrible to you, and you're risking so much. It's hard to–I mean, I don't know you anymore, and you were such a prat at Hogwarts...and I had no idea...and today, after you were trying to help the Mrs. Bourne...you _kissed me,_" she added, almost accusingly. "How could you never tell me, and how could you be so nasty to me, calling me Mudblood all the time and baiting Ron, trying to get Harry in trouble or killed so many times...and you _kissed _me!" Hermione paused, brow furrowed. "You're only wearing a towel."

He didn't know whether to laugh or yell at her.

"That's what happens when I hear the television on, and know that I didn't turn it on," he replied. "Did you get bored?"

"It was too quiet. I didn't think what you'd do if you heard it." She glanced at the towel again. "I suppose it could have been worse."

Yes, it could have. Normally he would have come out hexing everything in sight and grabbing for his pants. Paranoia was the mother of survival.

He realized he was staring at her and looked away, feeling the silence build like a thunderhead. Now it was awkward, and he was tired, and she was _gorgeous..._

"Why did you kiss me?" Hermione asked gently, and it was suddenly very hard to meet her soft brown eyes.

"Why–and how–did you follow me?" He replied.

"Answer my question and I'll answer yours."

Touché.

"Hermione, you shouldn't–" Draco began desperately.

_"Why?"_

Answering that question would end nowhere good. He'd been a git at Hogwarts, and the fact that she was less than fond of him was no surprise. He was already in over his head with this girl Idiocy, idiocy. He did _not _need this complication.

"You should leave. It's not safe." He said bluntly, gripping the knot at his hip. Wouldn't do for the towel to fall off now.

"Draco." Hermione made no move to leave, and he could feel color rising in his cheeks as he stared at her, all shades of brown and gold in the dim light.

"I thought I answered that fairly conclusively already," he muttered, almost too low for her to hear.

"And if you can figure out how I got here, you should have been told," she said, laughing softly to take the bite out of her words. "Put on some clothes. Merlin."

Draco smiled at her, the hint of the predator returning. "But then that would be disappointing, wouldn't it?"

"Show-off."

"Voyeur."

He _had _missed sparring with her. She was one of the few people that could keep up with him verbally, rather than simply tackling him to end the fight.

"You followed me here...why?" He asked softly, advancing on her.

"To apologize." Hermione replied steadily, trying desperately to keep her eyes off the exposed line from leg to hip where his towel gapped.

He was too close, and she backed up into the wall.

"Bad strategy, sweeting," he growled. "Now you've got no where to go."

"Why did you kiss me?" She breathed, staring up at his face. The face of a naughty angel now, those chiseled lips curving as he memorized every line of her cheeks and jaw, inhaling to imprint the scent of her hair on his memory. Circe, at least he would have that much.

"Why did you follow me?" He murmured, bending to press his lips against hers.

This was a bad, bad thing. But she tasted like sunlight and cinnamon under his mouth, and his hands plunged recklessly into her hair, drawing her to him, in, down...her mouth opened hesitantly and he took it, ravaging the sweet dark space, muscles in his neck and jaw working at he devoured her. Exactly as he'd wanted to for so long, exactly–except for the towel–how he dreamed it would happen.

Even so, he wasn't fooling himself that she had secretly loved him for years on end.

Her hand traced down his slippery back–such a small hand–and his brain abruptly went on holiday.

One last effort.

Draco wrenched back, chest heaving.

"We shouldn't," he said roughly. "You're in danger every second you're with me. You should go."

Hermione's smile was heartbreakingly sweet.

"Doesn't matter," she said huskily, twining her fingers in his pale hair. "I think both our questions have been answered. You're not the same Draco I knew."

And there was something more...something that tickled at her relentlessly when she thought of him. A touch of nobility, perhaps, that she had never seen before.

"Yes, this Draco has people on both sides trying to kill him," he informed her, breaking into her thoughts.

"I'm willing to risk it," Hermione said bluntly. "I'm not entirely useless. Shut up and kiss me."

Well, then.

_Author's Notes_

_Well, back to the old stuff, with a few crucial lines thrown in here and there. So if you noticed any inconsistencies, please let me know. I haven't done my disclaimers in a while, so here they are: these are not my characters, they are JK Rowling's, and all credit for their creation goes to her. Thanks also, again, to the Harry Potter Lexicon, the University of Notre Dame translation site, and to my reviewers, who motivate me to keep going. Review, please review. _


	7. Conligatio Iubar

They were on the bed and he had no idea how they'd gotten there; her hands were rubbing his bare back in lazy circles, fingernails digging in when he moved from her mouth to her throat. The skin was like satin there, and he tasted it with tongue and teeth, marking her thoroughly as his own.

"We should stop," he panted. "Hermione, if anything happened–"

_"It won't,"_ she growled into his chest, licking the remains of his shower away. He smelled of hotel soap, vaguely pleasant, but underneath that was the musk that was Draco himself–cool and fresh, like a mountain spring–no, that was the Brita commercial on the telly. Fumbling, she found the remote and clicked it off, drew his head down to hers, threading her fingers through hair that was silkier than anything she'd ever touched.

That, it seemed, was the end of Draco's protests, and it was some time before she noticed that his towel had fallen away, that the hard length of him was pressing just _there–_and she wanted him more desperately than she'd ever wanted anything in her life.

"My shirt," she whispered. "Off."

His fingers moved nimbly to the buttons and she kissed them in passing–long pale fingers on large hands, palms that were rough from who knew what, but hands that were not the pampered hands of a rich man's spoiled son. He pushed the shirt open so that it framed her body, narrow waist and torso that seemed as frail as a bird's, and round breasts that rose up, covered by a dark green bra. Bending, he stroked his tongue up her belly, up the sides of her ribs, reaching for the catch of her bra.

It came off and Draco didn't see where it landed, his lips catching insistently on the nipples that jutted forth, begging for his attention. First right and then left, tongue and teeth, lips and hot breath–Hermione clutched his head to her with a moan, her legs sliding apart so that he could lie between them. She was still wearing a little plaid skirt and who knew what color panties, which was damn sexy now that he thought about it.

His hand slid down her belly to her hips, gliding over her sleek flanks until Hermione moved his hand to where she wanted it, gasping with the sensation. She wanted him, and she was ready, her body straining. Draco still had enough of a sadist in him to make her suffer a little longer. He wanted her begging for it before he took her.

Hermione shifted her body against him, arching her hips against his hand with a low moan. His thumb obligingly found the nub between her legs and rubbed it delicately, finding her hot and wet. He squeezed his eyes shut, imagining what it would feel like to thrust into her, to sink his teeth into her at the same time. He was almost painfully hard.

Down his belly, and he felt her hand grasp the velvet length of him, gently easing up and down, her thumb working carefully over the head. Draco gasped and lurched into her hand, closing his eyes against the intensity of sensation.

_Even those hairs are silky,_ Hermione observed dryly. It somehow didn't seem fair.

For Draco it was enough. He flipped her over, dragging her panties off her hips and unbuttoning her skirt, flipping her back over with an ease that made her breath catch. His eyes flashed silver in the dim light as he spread her legs and plunged into her, wringing a cry from her as he sheathed himself to the hilt.

All the half-assed words he'd ever heard to describe this flew through his mind as he pounded into her. Warm, wet, tight, satin, grip, pull–her inner muscles contracted and he cried out, balancing himself on his arms. Her hands slid up to feel the taut definition of his triceps, harsh lines that stood out in sharp relief to her own soft body. The planes of his chest, the ridges of his belly, the dips and valleys at his back, and the twin muscles just above his buttocks that coiled and uncoiled like steel springs.

That he was here, and she was with him, doing this, was almost too much. Draco buried his face in her hair and slowed down deliberately, going for depth rather than repetition, sending himself as far into her as he could with each thrust, adjusting his lower body so that he would run over the spot that gave her the most pleasure. Perspiration was beginning to bead on his chest and forehead, and a delightful heat was growing...

Hermione suddenly cried again and clutched him to her, gasping, writhing, as she climaxed. The feel of her tightening and loosening around him was very nearly his undoing, and Draco held himself perfectly still, gritting his teeth, constructing potions in his head to keep from finishing.

She was slack-limbed and langourous as he moved onward, more slowly now, seeking to make her ready again, and again, and again, as often as possible before he himself could no longer hold back. He kissed her, his hands working at her nipples, feeling her quicken in response. She was marvelous.

"Draco?" She whispered, and he shook his head, teeth flashing as he smiled.

"Not yet, love."

Her hair was curling damply at her temples and he kissed it, pressed his lips to her brow, to each of her eyes, trailing down to her lips, and then, her neck. Her neck was endlessly fascinating–the way she squirmed if he kissed her just so, between jaw and ear, the way her whole body tightened if he nipped her throat.

He rolled over with her, keeping himself inside her, hands on her hips as he lay back. Eyes half-lidded, he slid his hands up to her breasts.

"Move."

Hesitantly at first, she did, rocking back and forth as he rolled his hips to meet her, matching her rhythm. Hermione leaned down, supporting her upper body on her arms, and he braced her there.

Weight and pressure–Hermione discovered both and began lifting herself off him, pressing down with her hips so that he slipped in and out, her hips slamming down on top of him with each thrust, trying to finish him, to make him call her name. He arched his hips up, thrusting so deeply that she put a hand to her belly, as if she could feel him there.

The rhythm was nearly fatal, for she slammed her hips down as he was arching up, and Draco's eyes went wide as he fought to keep from finishing. Deliberately, he sat up, so that only the tip of him was still in her, and Hermione pushed at him, desperate now for her own finish.

"Turn over, sweeting," he said, and she obeyed, moving limbs that felt clumsy as she brought herself up on hands and knees. "You're perfect," he said, voice deep and rough, his breath tickling her ear so that she shivered, gooseflesh breaking out down the valley of her spine. He felt her shiver and licked a long wet line down the indentation, tasting salt and sweet and the same time–the taste of her perspiration and the honey that was Hermione herself.

However, she was too small, and he shrugged mentally, looping a brawny arm underneath her tiny waist and lifting her entire lower body to slip himself inside. It took some adjustment, but he sought that spot inside her again, waiting for her gasp when he found it, and his other hand reached for her thick hair and tangled his fist in it, drawing her up in an arc that made the sensation that much more intense.

_Now._

Easier in this position to put his weight and strength into her, and the hot wet thud of flesh hitting flesh filled the silent room. Shadows danced over her body as he moved, and he saw the satin coils of her own muscles, so small compared to his own, as she arched her back and held herself up on trembling arms.

The heat built until she almost burst with it, and Hermione had a startled instant to think, _again?_

Then she was falling, her arms refusing to support her, incoherent cries falling from her lips as she spasmed, clenched tightly against his hips as he forced himself down and in, down and in, bottoming out at her cervix. It was pleasure and it was pain, and she looked over her shoulder to see Draco, eyes squeezed shut in concentration, muttering to himself.

Components of another potion, for he was perilously close. Every quiver of her body brought him that much further.

With an inarticulate growl, Draco gave up and flipped her back over, bringing her ankles up over his shoulders, pressing down with his extra hundred pounds to wring a muffled scream from her. Again, and again, because he was so close, she was panting and crying out his name, her nails raking his forearms in a way that would undoubtedly be very painful later. He could give a damn right now.

His eyes flew open in shock, and he came, an explosion that felt endless, as he milked the length of himself into her. The cords on the sides of his neck stood out as he managed a final, mighty push that blacked out her vision for a moment, so intense was her own orgasm. Hermione forced her eyes back open, wanting to watch him, the beauty of his face, jaw outthrust, eyes flashing silver that meant not only anger, but passion. He looked like an avenging angel. Even she felt her inner muscles clamp down on him in that final burst.

"Her-my-own-ee..." And he fell on her, checking himself with arms that felt like jelly, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

_Author's Notes_

_Short chapter, as was the last one, so I'll go ahead and give you the next one as well. Two chapters today. I'm pretty sure neither of these two will change, though. And _NO_, these two will _not _be humping like rabbits for the rest of the story. Just in case you're wondering. :)_

_The only questions I have for this chapter are about realism. Obviously, I wasn't going for fully realistic, because what's the fun in fantasy sex then? But if any part of this seemed humanly impossible, let me know. And just say to yourself as you're reading, Draco is a sex god. Draco is a sex god._


	8. Instruction

Seventy-five miles away, Lucius Malfoy felt the burn of a summons in his forearm and stood, kissing his pale wife on the cheek in passing. She knew where he was going, and he somehow doubted she cared very much. Narcissa Malfoy was aptly named. There were very few people that she felt anything for. Her husband was not one of them

It was, as with many ancient pureblood families, more of an alliance than a marriage.

Wand in pocket and mask in hand, Lucius Apparated to the brooding home in which the Dark Lord had taken residence, sweeping past the bowing Peter Pettigrew with a sneer twisting his lips. The silver of Pettigrew's magical arm flashed in the fading sunlight as he shut the door behind them both. Favored servant of the Dark Lord or not, Pettigrew was still nothing more than a self-interested coward, and Lucius trusted or liked him not at all. Once a traitor, always a traitor.

His lips twisted further on that thought, the air of coldness that surrounded him penetrating down to his own belly. _Traitor. Draco._

However opulent the mansion, it was permanently cold and dank, a reek that made his skin twitch. Even at dusk, the long corridors were nearly pitch black, lit by torches and candelabra with failing, waning light.

It certainly gave the place an atmosphere.

Not for the first time, Lucius recalled his ancestral home in Wiltshire, the elegance and wealth of it, the status that owning it provided him. Since his escape from Azkaban, he had been constantly on the move, staying with Death Eaters who had not been revealed, eking out a meagre existence. Disgraceful. Insulting.

The corridor ended in a flight of stone steps, leading down the basement where most of the Death Eater gatherings occurred. If possible, it was even colder and danker down there, as if those were the defining characteristics of the Dark Lord himself, and trailed behind him wherever he went.

Mask in place, Lucius bowed as he approached the seated Dark Lord. Such summons were not unusual, but this was the first time he had no inkling as to what was expected of him.

Whatever spell had brought the Dark Lord back, whatever twisted working of magic, blood, and bone, it had not ended its transformation on that night. Pale and cadaverous as Voldemort had been then, he was even more so now, his eyes a blaze of crimson that saw through any and all brought before him. He was snakelike, slits where his nose should have been, ivory scales rising back from his brow and down to the back of his neck; his face was an alien blend of reptile and human. His arms lay on the armrests of a chair that was very like a throne, each finger with an extra joint, long pale spidery hands.

Bowing further, Lucius bent and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robe. Alien and frightening, yes, but also more powerful than any wizard alive.

"Lucius." The Dark Lord smiled, a smile as horrifying as his laughter, empty and screeching. "Most faithful of my servants..."

"Yes, my Lord. I am prepared for any task you will give me."

"Are you?" The slits of the Dark Lord's nostrils flared. "Death and betrayal is in the air, Lucius. Can you not feel it?"

"Death, my Lord, but never betrayal," Lucius replied swiftly. "I would never betray you."

"Not you," the Dark Lord replied. "Your son, the Muggle-loving fool of a boy of whom I had such hopes. You failed with him. You reek of the failure. I smell it every moment you are in my presence."

Lucius threw himself on the floor, though his Lord could offer few greater castigations than those Lucius had given himself.

"Yet all is not lost," Voldemort added, cruel humour in his voice. "I will tell you how to redeem yourself..."

"Anything, my Lord."

Nagini slithered over him, and Lucius held himself perfectly still as the great snake coiled over his back, rubbing against the Dark Lord's feet like a cat.

"There are some," Voldemort said thoughtfully, "who are not worthy of the Dark Lord's attention, and must nonetheless be exterminated...some who, though they have never seen the Dark Lord, are an irritation. You must dispose of these."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Their fates are bound to you, Lucius," the Dark Lord said sharply. "And to others...their deaths will mean a great deal to the Boy."

There was never any doubt who the Boy was, though the Dark Lord seldom named him. Harry Potter. The Boy who Lived, Lucius thought, grinding his teeth. The boy had seen him sent to Azkaban, the boy who had seen him stripped of the power, wealth, and influence that was the birthright of every Malfoy.

"Gladly, my Lord."

"They will be going east in search of the artifact. You will instruct my Death Eaters there. The artifact is to be destroyed if it cannot be returned to me." Voldemort laughed then, and the hairs on the back of Lucius' neck rose at the sound, high, shrill, and still devoid of any emotion. "Binding of fates...let that be their downfall..."

"My Lord, I do not understand you," Lucius said, and Voldemort waved him to his feet, still laughing, still empty.

"Your son and his Muggle-born lover, my servant. Is that not clear enough?"

_Muggle-born lover._ Draco. Lucius' face paled in abrupt and utter rage. That any child of his body would dirty himself with such filth...

"You will know her when you see her," the Dark Lord said, bending to stroke Nagini. "You will feel it in her. She is a danger."

"Gladly, my Lord," Lucius repeated, and this time, he meant it with all his heart.

"Good," Voldemort smiled, cruel humour restored. "We will end it soon, Lucius...do not fail me again..."

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The Muggle-born lover of Draco Malfoy was currently wide awake, staring at the ceiling as Draco slept beside her, his breathing deep and slow.

This whole situation was insanity of the highest order, and both Harry and Ron would have simultaneous, multiple heart attacks if they knew where she was.

That actually did not particularly bother her. This Draco Malfoy was not the same Draco they had known; however bewildering the transformation was, Ron and Harry would accept it, eventually.

She was very likely to get Malfoy killed. Hermione was leaving in four day's time for Romania, straight into the midst of a Death Eater hunt. She was going to thwart them in their attempt to find the Eye; she was an Auror, and she was a member of the Order.

Given a quill and parchment, she could make an alphabetical list of the things likely to get her killed. Hermione rolled over and shoved her face into a pillow on that thought. Draco muttered in his sleep.

However many wizards had swelled the ranks of the Aurors, there never seemed to be enough. Never enough in the Order, for that matter. Too many wizards willing to let others do their fighting for them; too many terrified of returning home one night to see the Dark Mark wavering in the air above their home. And no one could ever be sure how many Death Eaters there were.

She could love Draco.

As if hearing her thoughts, he stirred, pulling her to him, her back against his chest, his arm around her waist, breathing in the scent of her hair.

"'Mione," he said sleepily, and dozed off again. That he could sleep so was vaguely irritating, when she was so worried, but then he was exhausted. The bags under his eyes had bags.

And even if Hermione managed not to get him killed, he was likely to get himself killed, doing whatever the hell it was he was doing. Spying. She snorted softly. Whatever he was doing, a one-word description didn't do justice to the risks he was taking.

This was _Draco Malfoy._

"Merlin's beard," she said aloud. Wrapped in his arms, twisted in sheets that smelled of him, she would give anything to be able to lie down and sleep beside him, forgetting the whole mess.

Before she left, she had to tell Dumbledore about the whole mess. She was also pondering–deeply– whether or not she should include Draco's part in the mess. If anyone could keep a secret, it was Dumbledore. And somehow or other, she would feel better if he knew it, even if he could offer no further protection.

It was an odd fate, but most of the students she had gone to Hogwarts with were either involved in the Ministry of Magic, if not the Order, or had predictably become Death Eaters. Most of her year's Slytherin House had become Death Eaters, and Hermione was mortally certain she had seen Millicent Bulstrode's cold eyes staring out from behind a mask on more than one occasion. Crabbe and Goyle were likely employed as full time removers of flies' wings–the only occupation that would not exceed their intelligence and still somehow managed to be both creepy and cruel.

The death of Cedric Diggory, the brief battle at the Ministry in fifth year...it had gone a long way to rousing the children she'd grown up with into battle-ready adults. Wherever Harry Potter went, the battle raged, and Hogwarts had been Ground Zero. The raid that had killed Professor McGonagall–the last of its kind, as it was too costly for the Death Eaters–had been the final straw.

If the Death Eaters hadn't returned to their old tactics, gathering strength, working through blackmail and the Imperious Curse, they might finally have been defeated. Might have. Two of the most useless words in the English language.

All this thinking was doing nothing but frightening her worse, and she turned in Draco's arms, burying her face in his chest. The sharp protrusions of his ribs were startling; as her hand moved delicately to his back; she could feel the ridged scars, the colour of old ivory by moonlight. She had never in her life experienced the kind of pain he'd survived; never known, for that matter, that there was such a thing as a lashing-spell.

And yet he had given her a mark that would draw half of her pain into him.

He watched through her eyes, and came to her when she was in danger.

It was the kind of thing that would have made her gag, had she read it in a romance novel. Now, she just wanted to pull him to her and pray.

"Go to sleep, Hermione," Draco muttered into her hair, voice deep with weariness. "There's nothing you can do about any of it now."

"It doesn't scare you?" She asked softly, startled to find him awake, and apparently reading her thoughts.

His arms tightened around her. "Every moment of every day. But I've already done all I can."

The tiny dragon on her back woke, mantling its wings, as if to remind her that Draco had indeed done all he could for her, short of locking her up in a room until the war was over. It was a peculiar feeling, when the dragon moved–a tickling itch between her shoulder blades.

"Scratch my back," she whispered, and Draco smiled as he did so, wringing something akin to a purr from the little dragon. "It had to be dragon?"

"Looks like it," he said, pressing his lips to her forehead. "I have to leave in a few hours, love."

"For what?"

Stupid question, that. He didn't bother to answer, just sighed. "Going to find the Eye soon?"

"Yes. Do you spy on me while I'm at work?"

"Spy is such an ugly word," he said, and silenced her with a kiss on the lips. "Sleep. Need sleep."

"Then sleep," she whispered, giving up on the questions, for now. "We're safe here."

"No, we're not," he murmured. "No illusions, Hermione, not even here."

"Can't you ever just rest? Stop thinking about it?"

He chuckled then. "This from the girl who woke me up with 'not thinking about it?' It doesn't go away until it's over."

Not exactly words of comfort, but if he could sleep anyway, so could she. But she traced his face with her fingertips in the dark, first, feeling a sigh of contentment rumble through his chest. Brow and chin, well-formed jaw and high cheekbones–she memorized him with her fingers in the darkness, learning the shape of lips that were not inclined to smiles, but no longer twisted into a contemptuous smirk. It still shook her to realize how beautiful he was.

Her fingers fell away as she finally slept, and Draco smiled into the darkness, gathering her close.

_Author's Notes_

_Any repetition, let me know. One of my reviewers pointed out the overuse of the epithet, "Merlin." I'm going to try to change it up some, but JKR didn't give us an abundance of epithets. Has anyone else noticed/been distracted by this?_

_All disclaimers apply; thanks to the Harry Potter Lexicon, again. I'll be taking my new epithets from their list of Chocolate Frog Cards. And review, review, review. Reviews keep me motivated._


	9. Travels and Travails

Conversation with Professor Dumbledore was rarely illuminating for Hermione. She provided information, and he uttered sentence fragments as he hovered over his Pensieve.

Perhaps that was an unfair characterization, but ever since Draco had dragged her off to the moonlit glade, she had been getting bits of information that apparently made sense to everyone else but her. She was getting tired of it.

He had questioned her thoroughly about Draco, examined the _Confatalis _mark, and made her repeat every word of their conversations as accurately as she could. Summoned Moody through the Floo network as soon as was convenient, and drew a long vaporous thought from his snowy head, trailing it into the Pensieve.

There were occasions when Professor Dumbledore looked every one of his hundred-and-fifty some years, and this was one of them.

"The Eye," he said softly, eyes going from twinkling to penetrating as he examined Hermione. "Yes, that would be a weapon."

"What do you know about the Eye, Professor?"

Dumbledore spread his hands, rising to pace. "Not much more, I'm afraid, Miss Granger. It has been reported here and there by wizards from that region, but it has never been used, to my knowledge. There's no proof that it truly exists. At least," he said thoughtfully, "that I am aware of."

The look on Hermione's face must have been telling.

"I am old, but not that old," he said, laughing softly and shoving his spectacles up a crooked nose. "Even long study does not make me all-knowing."

"Bloody well should," she grumbled, and looked up to see Dumbledore smiling at her.

"You worry too much, Miss Granger," he said, sitting back down at his desk and folding his hands in his lap. "You wear a powerful spell of protection. Very old magic." His eyes twinkled as he added, "More surprising is he who gave it to you."

The man missed nothing.

"Am I that transparent?" She asked, with a sigh of resignation.

"No, Miss Granger, but permit me the joy of having redeemed at least one of the Death Eaters' offspring." A shadow crossed Dumbledore's face. "I failed with so many others."

"I doubt there was anything you could have done, Professor. For what it's worth."

"Soothing to think so," he said softly. "But nevertheless...I do detest watching my students take opposite sides in this war."

At this point, Hermione almost wished he would read her thoughts, and spare her the trouble of verbalizing her worry–nay, terror–over what lay ahead. It _was_ war, after all, and whether it was on the front line or behind enemy lines, casualties occurred.

"I can watch, Hermione," Dumbledore said gently, using her given name for the first time in her life. "I can watch, and I can send help and hope it reaches you in time. But I am not omnipotent. The risks you children take..." He shook his head, looking old once more. "I have watched for years as you, Harry, and Mr. Weasley have risked your lives, and tried to protect you as best I could. I can do no more."

"I know." Hermione tried to smile, and knew it looked ill. "I chose this, didn't I?"

"And it was what you were meant to do," Dumbledore replied. "There's no more certainty than that."

Certainty, of course, was what she wanted. Knowledge that no more of her friends would die at the Death Eaters' hands; that she would not lose Draco, or Harry, or Ron. That she would never shiver through another funeral because someone had not been quick enough, or help had been too long in coming.

"Is there anything else you want me to do while I'm in Romania?" she asked, choking down the sudden lump in her throat.

"No. Do be careful, Miss Granger."

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It was odd how time moved when there was something to dread.

Ever since she had bidden Draco a hasty goodbye, time moved in galloping strides, or so slowly that she was certain she could feel every uptick of the sun. She wished again that Harry and Ron were there. She would confess all and be glad, just for the pleasure of Ron's awkward–and usually, amusing–attempts at comfort.

Shopping, packing, planning, research–it was an endless whirl that kept her busy from well before dawn until well after dusk, and that didn't include her duties with the Order. News that the Death Eaters had captured several members of the Order ran through headquarters like a shockwave.

And Hannah Abbot had resurfaced, closeted herself with Dumbledore for three and a half hours, and returned to Headquarters grim and standoffish. Owen Cauldwell, a Hufflepuff of Hermione's year, had not been seen since he walked home from the Ministry three nights ago.

It was war, and after a long lull, the Death Eaters were escalating it.

And Colin Creevey was following her. Again.

It was less than two days from her departure, and Hermione finally whirled on him in Diagon Alley, resisting the urge to shake the little prat until his eyes popped.

"Colin," she said through gritted teeth, "are you stalking me, or do you just happen to be visiting every shop I go to? Including Madame LeSoir's Lingerie?"

"Harry hasn't been seen for a while," Colin replied, injured at the charge of stalking. "Do you know what he's up to? The _Daily Prophet–"_

She supposed, given Colin's love for photography at Hogwarts, that journalism was a natural career path. Nonetheless, he was likely to get Harry killed one day.

She was about to tell him so when she realized how easily that could be turned into a front-page story. _The Boy Who Lived, Risking His Life to Save Wizarding Community._

"No comment," she snapped. "Go away, Colin, I have things to do."

"Looking for the Eye?" Colin asked slyly. "Would you say that it could turn the tide of the war, Hermione? Is Harry–"

He squeaked as Hermione hauled him off down a nearby alley and pinned him to the wall. She was no heavyweight, but Colin had apparently reached his full height at the ripe age of fourteen.

"Who told you?" She growled, her wand against his throat. "Morgana help you, if you print _anything..."_

Colin glared back, unimpressed. "If you hex me, I'll have you on the front page so fast–"

Now she shook him, his little blond head bobbing like an inexpertly controlled marionette's. "I asked who told you, and I don't give a damn how fast you put me on the front page." _First Rita Skeeter, and now this._ Too bad she didn't have anything to blackmail Colin with.

His threat apparently worthless, Colin backpedaled.

"Come on, Hermione. The readers have a right to know."

The incredibly frustrating thing about the press was that any information was bad information, and could be twisted eight ways from Sunday. And whoever had told Colin about the Eye was going to be missing a layer of skin when she caught them.

_"Who?" _Hermione shook him again, his head smacking against the brick wall.

"It was Lavender Brown, but only because she doesn't want anyone to know–" Colin clamped his mouth shut and glared at her.

"Because you blackmailed her," Hermione said, disgusted.

"The readers have a r–"

"The readers do _not _have a right to know things that could get Aurors killed!" Hermione almost shouted, realizing belatedly that she had just given him a headline. "Look, Colin," she added, setting him back down. "You're going to get me killed. Or Harry. Or Lavender. Or any of the people that are out risking their necks so you can stalk them for _exclusives _without worrying that a Death Eater is going to pop out and _avada kedavra _you."

She wasn't getting through.

"So what does this Eye do?" He asked, and she seriously considered hexing him into a slug right there.

_"No comment," _she snarled, and shoved him down the alley behind her, flinging a quick curse over her shoulder. Hermione could give a good goddamn if an article appeared tomorrow: _Former Head Girl of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Attacks _Daily Prophet_ Reporter._

Actually, if there were an article, she hoped it included a picture of Colin, the words _Readers Have A Right To Know_ marching across his forehead.

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"Not Lavender." Hermione said bluntly, two hours later.

Kingley's eyebrows went up, which was interesting, she thought distractedly. If he had hair, his eyebrows would currently be lost in it.

"Why?"

"She'll know why, sir. It could affect the mission."

As before, he gave her the benefit of the doubt, shrugging his broad shoulders. "She's almost as good as you are, Hermione. Who else do you want, then?"

"Susan." _She can keep her mouth shut, _Hermione added silently, still fuming. Aurors couldn't afford to have nasty secrets, especially with the Death Eaters watching for any weakness.

They were making final selections for Hermione's team, which included several Curse Breakers as well as Researchers. If only Harry and Ron hadn't been assigned elsewhere; they weren't the most experienced Dark Wizard catchers, but they were good, and she needed good. Romania would be swarming with the slimy gits.

"So we have you, Bones, Finch-Fletchley, Tonks, MacDougal, Finnegan, Ackerley, and Jones." Kingsley surveyed the list. "Not much experience here, Granger."

"Depends on the kind of experience you want, sir," she said soberly. After sixth and seventh year at Hogwarts, there were few students who hadn't passed their Defense Against the Dark Arts NEWTS with flying colors.

"True. Weasley's been contacted?"

Hermione nodded. Charlie Weasley was to be their unofficial guide in Romania, and as a member of the Order, another contact back to Dumbledore.

"Any word from our informant?"

Her heart contracted with the thought she'd been fighting to keep in the back of her mind for the past two days. "No."

"Your first command," Kingsley said, oblivious to her abject terror. "Don't screw it up, Granger." His smile took the sting out of his words, but her thoughts still on Draco, wherever he was, whatever he was doing. The dragon on her back stretched and yawned, a blast of hot air curling up the back of her neck.

"Try not to, sir," she replied, her smile weak around the edges.

She sent the memos out immediately, instructions to the members of her team who would meet the next morning to make last-minute plans. As the last of them fluttered into the elevator, she sat at her desk with her head in her hands, elbowing her stapler out of the way. Bewitching staplers had been a bad idea on somebody's part. Worse than the _Monster Book of Monsters_ for biting

Hermione didn't know what she'd been expected, after...after what had happened when she followed Draco to his hotel room. Something should have changed. Draco hadn't asked her to clear his name, and in truth, it couldn't be cleared without endangering whatever it was he was doing. But Circe save her, she wanted him. She wanted to go to sleep next to him at least one more time before she went to Romania. She wanted _him._

Focus on the job. She sighed gustily. There was still plenty to do between now and Thursday morning. Visit the library again, for one. Borrow the rest of the books she was planning to take with her.

She still had a little visit to pay to Lavender, for that matter. The girl wasn't in the Order, thank Morgana, but whatever it was Colin held over her head had to be resolved. She couldn't do her job if someone was blackmailing her. Hermione's lips twitched slightly. Lavender wouldn't be _permitted _to do her job, if Hermione had anything to say about it.

And she had to visit headquarters again tonight. And hope someone was there to let her in this time, Hermione grumbled mentally. However useful the _Confatalis _mark, having to knock at the door was becoming something of a standing joke to the other members of the Order. Fred and George had yet to make their move, which was nerve-wracking. Better to get it over with and be done. Which, she knew, was likely the point of the exercise.

Some things, she supposed, truly never changed.

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It was well past ten o'clock that night when Hermione Apparated into her flat, dropping her keys in the bowl by the door more out of habit than necessity and shrugging her robes off, hanging them in a nearby closet. No matter how tired she was, she just couldn't sleep if she knew there were clothes hanging about, lying on the floor, on a chair...

Evidence of obsessive-compulsive disorder, most likely, she thought, wandering into the kitchen for a glass of milk. It always put her to sleep faster, and even as tired as she was, her mind never could turn off before a mission. _A mission. _Hermione shook her head, lifting the glass to her lips. As she turned, she caught sight of a moving shadow in the darkened corner of her living room. The glass dropped from her hand and shattered on the floor.

The name _Draco _was on her lips, but it was Harry that stepped forward, grinning.

"Getting a little jumpy, Hermione? _Reparo." _He set the glass on the counter and enveloped her in a hug. "Merlin, I'm glad to see you."

Hermione was spluttering, but let herself be hugged until she caught a whiff of his robes. "Harry, what the hell have you been _rolling _in?"

"Not a word of welcome," said another voice, and Hermione was enveloped again, another set of robes that smelled differently from Harry's and were no less pungent for it.

"She's inconsiderate that way," said Harry soberly over Hermione's head.

"Both of you!" Hermione grinned up at them, tall Harry and taller, lankier Ron, who was so tan, his freckles were running together. "Where on earth have you be–_my carpet!"_

The white carpet was littered with dirt and grass stains, and Harry rolled his eyes. _"Scourgify. _Honestly, Hermione, you'd think we expected you to get down on your knees and scrub."

"You still haven't told me what both of you have been rolling in," she said scathingly. "Take your robes off and hang them out the window."

"Now she wants our robes off," Harry whispered to Ron as they walked to the window, just loudly enough for Hermione to hear. "What should we do?"

"We'd better do what she says, mate. She'll be offering us drinks next, and then what?"

"You two are starting to sound like Fred and George," Hermione called from the kitchen. "I'm sure you're not a good influence, Ron."

"Me?" Ron sounded highly insulted. "You and I would never be in trouble, if it weren't for this rule-breaker."

The bantering was so familiar, it didn't feel at all as if it had been nearly six months since she'd last seen them. Plates, glasses, food and drink flew from the cupboards and marched out to the coffee table in her living room. If there she was one thing she knew about Harry and Ron, it was that they would be hungry.

Thirty minutes later, she was seated next to Harry on the couch, laughing so hard that her sides ached with it.

"And then," Ron concluded, "the little git has the nerve to say that he'd never meant to hex us; that it was all a misunderstanding, and he'd be glad to offer us a spot of tea before we left." He snorted. "It took us three weeks to get Harry's ears even."

Hermione wiped the tears from her eyes.

"To think," she said, doing her best to sound injured, "that all this time I was up late, worrying about you, hoping and praying on bended knee that you were safe..."

"On bended knee, were you?" Harry cuffed her affectionately. "Now it's your turn, Constable. Tell all."

"Security is unbelievable," she groused, pleased nonetheless. "An hour back and you've already heard." _From Lavender, I'll bet. _Lavender had been less than overjoyed with Hermione's visit.

"It's our job to know," Harry replied airily. "Spill it, miss."

Which, though she'd longed to do so repeatedly over the last few weeks, was a lot more difficult to do with Harry and Ron actually sitting with her, she thought, chewing on her lower lip.

The boys exchanged glances. Well, men, she supposed, now.

"Or as much as you can," Ron said helpfully. For all that they'd told her, there was a great deal unsaid. It was the way it had to be.

With an inner sigh she cast a Silencing Charm on the room, windows and door especially, even though her flat was already unplottable and shrouded in so many spells that it would take years to remove them all.

And she told them.

Ron almost burst, and she hushed him swiftly.

"He's not the same," she said quietly. "If you ever get to meet him, Ron, you'll see that."

"He's–he's–_Draco Malfoy!" _Ron burst out in a furious whisper. "I know you're good at Legilimancy, but Merlin, Hermione..._Malfoy?"_

She supposed it was a good thing she hadn't mentioned sleeping with him.

"I know, Ron, but we're going to Romania on his information. Trust me." A blush crept on her face, hard as she tried to suppress it; predictably, the harder she tried, the worse it got. "That's why he left when his father escaped Azkaban sixth year. To help..." She trailed off.

"Why would the self-titled Heir of Slytherin want to help us?" Harry muttered thoughtfully. His eyes were piercing when he looked at Hermione.

If she blushed any harder, her head would explode. Morgana le Fay and all the Wizards and Witches of the past, _why _was she such a miserable liar? _Why?_

Given a few years, Ron had gotten over his thickness where matters of the heart were concerned, and now he stared at Hermione in horrified awe.

"Oh, Hermione, no."

"He's different," she mumbled, taking a gulp of hot tea.

Communication was flying back and forth between Harry and Ron, and wisely, they let it be. Hermione _was _a good Legilimens, and other than reminding her of the horrible Malfoy of years one through five at Hogwarts, they didn't have a leg to stand on.

"So," Harry said finally, a smile broadening on his face. "Draco Malfoy..."

"Spew," Ron said, and Hermione tried to scowl.

"It's not _spew," _she said with great dignity. "It was S-P-E-W. And that has nothing to do with it."

"Spew," Harry confirmed, nudging her with his elbow. "Laugh, Hermione. Are you going to make badges?"

"The Society for the Prevention of the Defamation of Draco Malfoy?" Ron suggested. "Spotdodm?"

"Not enough vowels," Harry said thoughtfully.

Hermione couldn't help grinning. "I missed you both."

_Author's Notes_

_Loooong chapter tonight, so you only get one. And this is sort of the end of the fluffy stuff; as Hermione noted, the war is escalating. I've got some final tweaks in the next few chapters to make, and a couple new ones to be certain of before I post them, but you'll have them just as soon as I'm sure they're ready._

_Thanks again to my reviewers, and please do review. Everyone asks for it, but a little word means a lot. Especially given the number of hours that go into writing these stories._


	10. Last Breath Before the Plunge

Crouched outside the Nott Mansion, Draco's muscles were screaming at him, but he dared not move; hardly dared breathe.

Perspiration beaded and ran freely, down his forehead, the back of his neck, soaking the shirt Hermione had given him underneath his Invisibility Cloak. It was not a night any different from many of his nights the past few years, but his knees were starting to give him fits.

More than the pain in his knees, though, was the effort expended, through Occlumency, to hide his presence. There were few wizards outside the Dark Lord who could sense others nearby, but Dolohov was one of those, and Draco risked nothing, if he could avoid it.

The flesh-colored string of an Extendible Ear sat on the windowsill, charmed to be invisible, and not for the first time, Draco pondered the irony of using so frequently something created by a Weasley. He'd never had much use for that particular clan.

It had been only a few months since the Death Eaters had first discovered him, and by then, the damage was done. He knew where they lived; he knew what charms protected their homes, when and where they were likely to meet. With the exception of Voldemort and the dispossessed Death Eaters, his father included, all of the Death Eaters would have had to pack up and move to hide from Draco. The wealthy ones, secure in their ancestral homes, had refused to do that. And however safe they thought the charms made them, there were ways and ways, as he'd told Hermione. Almost every charm could be countered.

The improved version of the Ear had some problems with reception, but it was unaffected by solid objects and Imperturbable Charms, and Draco adjusted it in his ear, struggling to catch snatches of the conversation within.

_"...the Lestranges?" _Nott was finishing, and Dolohov nodded, a gaunt pale figure in the dimly lit room, still wearing the marks of Azkaban.

_"...yesterday," _Dolohov replied quietly. _"...Mulciber to follow...Dark Lord...sent..."_

Swearing internally, Draco fiddled again with the Ear and thought he might spend a little time later improving it further. Trying to get the Ear in just the right position was like trying to get the rabbit ears on his television to pick up a channel clearly. It almost took an act of God.

_"...summoned...dealt with?" _Nott asked, and Dolohov nodded again.

_"...trouble. The Order discovered..."_

Draco permitted himself a grim smile at that. Apparently, the "wavering caretaker" had been dealt with.

_"...sending Aurors and members of the Order...Muggle-born..."_

Muggle-born bitch? Was that what he said? There were quite a few working at the Ministry that fit that description, but his thought immediately went to Hermione. His lips quirked. Except for the "bitch" part.

_"...Malfoy...deal with..."_

Which Malfoy? Deal with what?

_"Avery later. Dark Lord's instructions."_

Draco closed his eyes. On the off chance that Dolohov had different instructions, different information for Avery, he would have to go there, too. By habit, Death Eaters made the rounds at night, in an antiquated "calling" ritual that was a pretension of the old English nobility. Dolohov would be at Avery's by dawn, a dilapidated house in Essex. And Merlin, did Draco ever just want to crawl into a bed and sleep. His temples pulsed in the effort of Occlumency.

_"Filthy Mudbloods, Muggles taking..."_

They'd moved on to ranting now, and Draco's breath was rattling in his chest as he tried to figure out what had been said, adding it to other bits of information he'd picked up along the way. Which Malfoy? As willing as he was to take the Death Eaters down, he was not eager to face his father. Either they were hunting Draco–old news–or his father was...what?

Draco swore again, rising silently on knees that popped, and reached for the Portkey in his pocket. He didn't dare Apparate from here; the _crack _as he vanished was sure to give him away. More than that, Nott was head of one of Voldemort's cells tasked with hunting Dark Wizard catchers. Not only would he hear an Apparation, he would follow it.

He reappeared on the edge of the trees near his hotel, careful, as always, to be seen coming and going from his room. If it seemed he never left, some employee might take it upon themselves to investigate. That could be bad.

The hotel manager, a greasy hulk of man, barely glanced away from the television as Draco slapped almost all of his remaining Muggle cash on the counter and informed him that he was checking out. Over a week had passed since he checked in, and he didn't dare stay in any place too long. He usually moved every week; sooner if he thought he was being followed.

With mutual indifference, he and the manager parted, and Draco went down to his room to pack, his brow furrowed as he tried to puzzle together what he'd heard.

At least he and the Mystery Cricket would be parting ways, he thought, as the little beast chirped from the corner of his room. They had been roommates for over a week now, and despite the fact that Draco had torn the room apart looking for it two nights in a row, he'd never found it.

Picking up a threadbare duffel bag, Draco hastily assembled his meager pile of possessions. Two extra shirts, cloak and Invisibility Cloak. A battered bag of his potions ingredients, as well as the dregs of a Pepperup potion, several antidotes, and a vial of Veritaserum...he remembered wistfully the privileged first fifteen years of his life as he packed the clinking vials carefully between his clothes. The money had never been his, though, and the cost of that privilege, more than he was willing to pay.

The little leather bag that held the last of his Wizard money went into the bottom of the bag: a few knuts, a couple sickles, and three galleons. He would have to go get some more Muggle money tonight, before he found another hotel, and Draco closed his eyes. He was already exhausted, and getting Muggle money took a lot out of him.

He replaced his last ten pounds in a battered wallet and paused in passing to examine a photo of Hermione, torn out of Hogwarts yearbook he'd stumbled across in a garbage bin in Diagon Alley. She had been in sixth year in that yearbook. Longer brown hair that had finally been pulled straight, brown eyes that looked down almost coyly, then back up with a smile that he couldn't help returning. Occasionally, she read a book, thoughtfully twining a lock of hair in her fingers. A fresh-faced sixteen, no idea that soon Draco would be gone, McGonagall would be dead, Longbottom in what looked like an irreversible coma...hell, she was still fresh-faced, despite all that had happened. It was one of the reasons he loved her.

Shaving kit, socks and an extra pair of boots, and that was it. The sum of his worldly wealth. Draco slung the duffel bag over his shoulder and paused just outside the hotel, glancing back at the buzzing neon sign that proclaimed _Vac ncy. _The second _a _had gone out.

Down the road a bit was a convenience store, and he bought some cheap watches there, ignoring the curious eyes of the girl at the counter, who hid a cigarette behind her back as she handed him his change. Three watches with Muggle cartoon characters on them, a show he'd watched once on telly and never really seen the point of. Ed, Edd, and Eddy? Were there no other names to pick from?

It took time to transfigure the watches. He sat in the alley behind the convenience store, slowly shaping them into Rolexes, pausing occasionally to listen, making sure he wasn't watched. Never mind wizards, Muggles might raise an unholy din if they saw the glow as he reworked the cheap children's watches. Trafficking with magically created or changed goods was strictly against the law, of course, but it beat purse-snatching.

He'd seen a commercial on television about Rolexes, and for whatever reason, pawn shops paid a great deal of money for them.

Despite the cold and snow, he was perspiring again when he finished, and Draco leaned back against the wall when he was done, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Between the Occlumency and the Transfiguring, he was about finished. He'd wait to contact Hermione until later, after he'd had a few hours of sleep.

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A burning on her back woke her, and Hermione sat up in bed with a start, reaching for her wand and staring wildly around the room until she remembered what it meant. _Draco._

The little dragon woke as well, but there was no urgency in him this time; he yawned and curled up on her back, scratching lightly with tiny claws. Still halfway dreaming, Hermione staggered out of bed and rubbed her eyes, casting about for clothes that vaguely matched.

_"Lumos," _she muttered, chagrined. Light would definitely aid in the search.

Swiftly, she plaited her hair, tying it off with a mumbled, _"comptus," _and stomped into trainers, Summoning her cloak from the closet down the hall. It was cold tonight, and the snow would be deep in the glade. The portkey was halfway unwrapped before she remembered the food she'd put aside for Draco, and she fetched it quickly, vanishing from her flat.

Darker tonight, for the moon had waned, and laden clouds overhead promised more snow, even as a few flurries darted past her rapidly numbing nose. Hermione dug her hands into her pockets and shivered, brushing snow off the tree stump and sitting down.

Draco was not long in coming, and she could see lines of weariness etched in his face as he approached, his eyes red, his chin stubbled with the beginnings of a beard two shades darker than his hair.

"Mmm." He bent, pressed his lips to hers, and picked her up effortlessly, taking her place on the tree stump and resting her easily on his lap. "I don't have long," he said quietly. "You're leaving tomorrow?"

"Today," she replied. "In a few hours."

He tilted her chin up with a long finger and kissed her again. "Be careful, love. The Lestranges and Mulciber will be there. My father–" His voice hitched over the word– "might be there. I'm not sure."

"I've warned Harry and Ron, and Dumbledore. I told them everything," she said quietly, watching his face for approval. He nodded wearily.

"I thought you would," he said. "And Moody, and Shacklebolt?"

"They figured it out."

"Thought so, but I was watching, anyway." Draco smothered a yawn and reached for the bag of food at their feet, working through a sandwich more out of habit than desire. He supposed he needed to eat, but he needed sleep more, and that wasn't going to happen yet. "Moody, of course," he said, "is trustworthy. Shacklebolt's the Head, isn't he?" Hermione nodded, and Draco grimaced. "Then he'd better be trustworthy."

"He's a member of the Order," Hermione reminded him.

"That's helpful, but the Order's had traitors before. Dumbledore just flushed one out."

"How do you know so much?" She asked curiously.

"Someone has to watch the watchers," he said, smiling crookedly. "It's no use to ferret out spies if you don't know what they've told the Death Eaters, is it?"

A smile touched her lips at the mention of _ferret_, and Draco caught her amusement and hugged her.

"The day that will live in infamy," he murmured. "I'm glad you're leaving. The hunt starts soon."

That jolted her; with him, here, it was almost too easy to forget the danger. _The hunt. _For the Order and for Aurors. An escalation of the war. The Death Eaters must be close to finding the artifact, and due to the piles of bureaucratic red tape at the Ministry, she hadn't even started the search.

"Do you know anything more about the Eye? Where they're looking, where it might be?"

Draco shook his head. "I'd have to go to Romania myself for that, love. And I've got enough to do here."

"So you won't be there." Hermione touched his face, reading the answer. "Go ahead and eat," she added, feeling his stomach growl.

The Lestranges and Mulciber. She remembered the Lestranges from the Battle in the Department of Mysteries. Bellatrix, cousin to Sirius, who had been the first casualty of the second war. A cold woman, and cruel. And Draco's aunt, for that matter, Hermione realized. She'd seen the Black family tree in Grimmauld Place, and as far as she knew, the golden lines connecting Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy were still there, along with the name of their blood traitor son.

Mulciber, who had hexed Neville into a coma that he had yet to awaken from. It was Antonin Dolohov, though, that had killed Professor McGonagall. One of the deadliest of the Death Eaters.

She would be facing them, when she went to Romania, but her concern was more for Draco, and for Susan, Justin, Tonks...Charlie...Ginny...Harry and Ron...

When she really thought about it, the odds were not good, statistically speaking, that they would all make it through this war alive.

"Draco," she said suddenly, "please, be careful."

"Do my best," he replied, but it wasn't a promise, and that was what she needed to hear.

"Just..." She trailed off. "Don't die, Draco. Call for help if you need it. I'll come."

Dropping the sandwich into the snow, Draco crushed her against him.

"I know you will. I'll try." His lips against her hair, the smell of him, and there was a bittersweet desperation in the next kiss, that was both _farewell_ and, _love you. _And even if Hermione couldn't say it yet, even if she couldn't bring his face close to hers and whisper the words she knew he was waiting for, she could tell him this way.

"The Mark," he said hoarsely. "It was a marriage mark, a long, long time ago." His teeth flashed as she nodded, and he ran his fingers through her hair. "You looked it up," he said approvingly. "That's how I meant it, love."

With a _crack, _he was gone. Hermione thumped down onto the tree stump, mouth open, and no idea what to say.

For a moment, she thought of following him. No. He had things to do, and so did she. It was only a few hours until dawn, and there was work ahead.


	11. The Dragon's Door

Hermione, Tonks, and Hestia Jones entered Romania through _Balfaur Usã, _the Dragon's Door, shaking the ash from their clothes and coughing fiercely. It was a long way from England to Romania by Floo.

The rest of her team, having arrived from many different places by many different methods, were already there, and Charlie Weasley came forward to hug her, grinning, and taking the sheaf of letters from her hands.

"We've set aside space for you down here," He bellowed above the roar of dragons, who must have been feeding. Surely they weren't always that loud. Shouldering a light pack filled with clothing and a mind-bogglingly heavy suitcase filled with books, Hermione followed, dodging an almighty streamer of flame. The tiny dragon on her back was going berserk. Not in heated summons, but apparently excited to be around other dragons.

The rest followed along, Susan Bones shrieking as she put out her smouldering robes.

She was here, there was work to be done, and all Hermione wanted to do was go to sleep. It must be catching. No amount of coffee had awakened her this morning, but she did have to pee rather desperately. Most likely something to do with the coffee.

This was not the first time Hermione had travelled for her job, but it was the first time she had gone somewhere quite so exotic. The Romanian Department of Dragon Care had their headquarters in a vast network of caves, and dimly visible behind the enchanted ceiling and along the walls were stalactites and stalagmites, water dripping slowly in the corners as it wore away stone, stretched rock, forming pools that rippled as the dragons floundered about. The sun was well up in the enchanted ceiling, surely even brighter than the sun outside.

"Rooms are through there!" shouted Charlie, hurrying down the corridor toward a Romanian Longhorn that was dashing its namesake at the walls of its pen. Relieved, Hermione found the room and shut the door behind all of them, instantly eliminating the din.

The rooms they had been given were spacious; a large meeting room with several long tables, and four smaller rooms with two beds each. Here, at least, the cavern walls were covered over with wood and plaster, and even windows that looked out on sunny meadows, trees visible in the distance. More like a cottage than a cavern by far.

Having dropped her knapsack in the room she was sharing with Tonks, Hermione unloaded her books onto one of the long tables in the common room, the others stretching out maps, unloading books of their own–or, in the case of Seamus Finnegan, Tonks, and Hestia Jones, playing with their wands and looking bored. On the wall, Hermione pinned pictures of the Death Eaters Draco had named, staring at Lucius Malfoy for a long moment–the man his son so strongly resembled. Lucius' hair was much longer, his face as finely formed, if older, but there was a coldness to that face that was missing in Draco's.

Still, it was grimly satisfying to look and know that picture was taken in Azkaban, even if he had escaped.

And gone was the Hermione that would have been intimidated by all the eyes on her. Turning back to the assembled Aurors, Hermione gestured to them to gather around the books and maps.

"Tonks and Seamus, I want you both to start hunting Death Eaters," Hermione said. "If we're lucky, we can let them do the work and just take the Eye from them when they find it–or get to it ahead of them. Seamus, have you decided who you're going to be?"

"Mulciber," he said, gesturing to the rack of Polyjuice Potion vials on a nearby table. "We got some of his hairs."

_Sure he doesn't have a cat? _Hermione wanted to ask wryly, but decided she would be the only one to get the joke.

"Hestia, Terry Boot got here a week ago; you're supposed to meet him in the–" Hermione paused, staring at her notes. "– Coffee Mill," she translated roughly. "Just look for something that says 'rasnita cafea' with little squiggles all over it. And _be careful_," she added severely.

Seamus saluted, having somewhat less cheerfully downed a vial of grey-green gelatinous sludge, clicked his heels, and vanished.

"Wotcher, Hermione," said the Metamorphmagus with a wink, turning herself into a pleasantly plump grandmother before disappearing. Hestia, all business, had Apparated on the final syllable of Hermione's admonition.

"And I suppose the rest of us know what to do," Hermione said with a sigh, drawing out a chair and opening the first book.

The sound of the Researchers and Curse Breakers at work was ordinarily a sweet one to Hermione; a sound she had dreamed of in the willy-nilly days in the Gryffindor Common Room: utter silence, except for the occasional turn of the page, the scratch of quills. The sound of people hard at work. Once it would have been her idea of heaven. Now the words danced on the page before her, a jumble of letters that made no sense. Ruthlessly she drove all thoughts of Draco, all thoughts of Death Eaters, all thoughts of what might be happening back home from her mind. It didn't matter that almost everyone she loved was either in the Order, or employed by the Ministry. She could help them best by doing her job here.

Hermione always gave herself very good advice; usually it was difficult to take it.

There was nothing in _Pantheon: Rise and Fall of Greek Wizards _(Andromeda Jasper); nothing in _Articles and Artifacts, an Overview of the Relics of Western Civilization; _nothing, nothing, nothing. By the sounds of the quills–or lack thereof–few of the others were having any better luck.

The oldest, moldiest, and most obscure tomes were on the bottom of the stacks, and Hermione dug them out reluctantly. Usually, the more modern books would make sense of the Old English–or, God forbid, the old Latin, Greek, or Sumerian–for them, but Hermione had the feeling that the Eye, for whatever reason, had not merited mention in modern books.

One or two of the others sneezed as they opened their books, and Hermione bent low over hers, the title of which translated–from ancient Macedonian–to _The Conquering of the Peloponnesus, the Fall of the Greeks, and What Was Found There. _She didn't bother to try to make out the author's name.

It was worse than reading Sanskrit. There must have been a Preserving Charm put on this book to keep it from falling apart.

Scanning as rapidly as she could translate, Hermione was three hundred and forty-five pages in before she even found mention of the Eye, and that was disappointing.

_The pearl of Diana, the Eye of the Moon, missing from inventory of the sack of Athens. Antious was questioned most thoroughly, under fire and knife, with..._

Ugh. Hermione skipped the rest of that paragraph, which was mostly a description of the fate Antious suffered. The upshot of it was, she thought dryly, the Macedonians hadn't got the Eye.

A few minutes later, Susan Bones squealed excitedly.

"Look," she said, thrusting the book to Hermione. "A picture of the Eye."

Hermione checked the cover as she took the book–_Wanderings, A Gypsy's Autobiography_. Well, more or less. Susan was already cataloguing the find: title, page number, description, and Hermione stared at the picture, imprinting the image on her brain in case she tripped over it in the forest.

As with most objects of power, the Eye was absurdly small. Apparently, a type of rare gem, similar to a diamond, that was created by a powerful ancient witch or wizard. Most likely a witch, given that it was also called Diana's pearl. There was, however, nothing pearl-like about it.

Hermione handed the book to Justin Finch-Fletchley, who was the best artist of the lot. They would give Seamus, Tonks, and Hestia a copy of the drawing when they came back that evening.

In the meantime, however, it was a difficult choice; continue to plow through the old books, most of which consisted of accounts of seeing the eye before Greece fell, or look through books from the Middle Ages and see if the Eye had resurfaced anywhere. Well, in Romania, obviously, but Hermione was hoping for something more specific than that.

Wordlessly, she finally picked up one of the newer books, muttering an oath. The wizards from the fourteenth to eighteenth centuries had apparently been so excited by their mastery of writing that they wrote _everything _down. Up to and including what they had had for breakfast that morning.

Accustomed to working together, Stewart picked up one of the newer books, leaving Susan and Morag to go through the older ones. Susan was better with the languages, anyway. Morag would just have to make do.

Research was long, tedious, and painstaking work and Hermione called a break after the requisite three hours, absolutely longing for a cigarette. Muggle or wizard, there was only so long anyone could concentrate on one thing. Breaks of at least an hour long were a necessity.

She was sorry to do it, however, for all the worries came flooding back, and she wondered if Mrs. Weasley was still at Headquarters. Most likely not. All her children grown, Molly Weasley had become one of the most active members of the Order, and was most likely off doing Circe knew what.

_Draco, Draco._

She wished he wore a mark that would let her see through _his _eyes. Hermione had no idea how long she would be in Romania, but she already missed him dreadfully.

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Three days had passed. Despite a trip to the Romanian Ministry's library, there had been nothing concrete found, and Hermione was getting discouraged. The library–any library–had never failed her before, and it was disillusioning. Their Dark Wizard Catchers–Seamus, Tonks, and Hestia–had stumbled on no one more unpleasant than a vampire, and after they fixed Seamus's nose, frustration quickly returned. There was a sense of foreboding that Hermione couldn't shake; a ceaseless whisper that said, _too late, too late._

She had heard nothing from Draco, and it was both good and bad. If the Death Eaters had already found the Eye, surely he would have called her. And the dragon on her back still wriggled, purred, clawed, and almost set her robes on fire, so obviously Draco was still alive.

After three days with Charlie and _his _dragons, though, Hermione was starting to rethink her Muggle-enforced enchantment with the creatures. The memory of Norbert had dimmed with time, but came flying back now under a constant battery of roars and flames. How Charlie had maintained his limbs and freckled face this long, dealing with the beasts every day, Hermione had no idea.

They had _everything,_ Hermione thought in frustration, scanning a book's worth of notes. Multiple descriptions of the Eye, legends about the witch–for it was a witch–that made it, endless frustration on the part of the Macedonians...everything but where the bloody thing was _now._ Knowing that Vladimir Pytrovich had possessed it, briefly, in 1503, was not much help.

Even Tonks's new, improved noses failed to interest her. Dammit, she wanted something to happen.

Wishing was dangerous. She knew that. But as the days crept by, she wished more and more that the Death Eaters would just _find _the damn thing, so she and the rest could go take it from them. The Research team surely wasn't getting anywhere with their books.

Predictably, her wish came true just as she and Susan were ecstatically taking notes about a gypsy caravan that reputedly had the Eye. Gypsies were notorious for passing heirlooms along for stretches of centuries, so it was likely that unless a caravan was wiped out, the Eye still remained in the family. They were speculating and chattering excitedly when Seamus Finnegan Apparated into the room just long enough to roar, _"Follow me!"_

Half a dozen small rocks landed on the table as he vanished, and Hermione screamed for Charlie, sending the rest ahead after Seamus. Well, she'd wished for some excitement, hadn't she?

_Author's Notes:_

_I don't remember the name of the site I found for Romanian translation, and I don't intend to use it ever again. The Romanians apparently find plain letters dull, and embellish them with squiggles wherever possible. No offense to any Romanians out there; I know slang makes English an interesting language to learn, too. The 's' in "Balfaur Usa" was supposed to have an accent mark, too, but this site can't pick it up. And is apparently picky about accented "a's."_

_Action on the way, Kazfeist. The last chapter was, in my opinion, aptly named._


	12. Casualties of War

There had only been time for a panicked, disjointed account to Charlie, and he was currently Flooing back to Headquarters, and then on to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, hopefully bringing some help. Hermione had no idea how many Death Eaters had come in search of the Eye, but she did know that Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Black, and Mulciber were among them–three of the deadliest of the Death Eaters. Grabbing the last of the stones that Seamus had cleverly turned into Portkeys, Hermione felt the familiar jerk just behind her belly and shot forward into rushing darkness.

She almost Apparated into a _cruciatus _curse, and Hermione ducked, rolling into a wagon wheel. It was night, wagons were burning, Muggles were screaming, and horses were galloping everywhere, trampling friend and foe alike.

The Aurors had taken cover along the snowy treeline and had the Death Eaters pinned down. It was impossible to tell how many there were; jets of light, green and red and violet, flew back and forth, lighting up the night like a Chinese New Year, and Hermione judged it best to stay where she was for the moment.

Until she saw Seamus on the ground a few feet away. He wasn't moving.

Ducking her head, Hermione belly-crawled toward him with her heart in her throat, grabbing his arm and dragging him back to the cover of the wagons, grunting with effort. Seamus, along with what looked like most of the boys from Hogwarts, had gotten huge.

He wasn't moving. Dammit, _why _wasn't he moving?

Blank eyes, staring upward, no pulse...but that could just be because her fingers were shaking too badly to check properly.

Tearing off a strip of her robes and gripping the stone in her pocket with it, Hermione focused on the Aurors' wing of the Ministry Clinic with all her might. _"Portus," _she whispered, and pressed the stone into Seamus' hand, praying that would be enough. In the midst of this insanity, there was nothing more she could do for him.

Seamus vanished, and Hermione crawled along the gravelly road, ducking her head under the front axle of the wagon to worm her way forward. Along the opposite side of the wagons, where the Aurors' view was obstructed, she saw a masked figure leap from a wagon, one hand clenched tight.

_Merlin help me._

With a muttered oath, she rolled out from underneath the wagon, sprinting alongside the caravan after him. Trying to focus, trying to breathe, aim, as she leapt boxes and barrels. It was hard to hit a moving target. And a shrinking target–_Pettigrew?_

If he turned completely into a rat, she'd never find him. The Eye was small enough for a rat to carry in its mouth. Hermione ran faster, blessing all the hours she'd spent sweating in the sun, running until it felt like her lungs would explode. Once before, Pettigrew had gotten away from her, condemning Harry's godfather to a fugitive existence that ultimately led to his death. The cringing little coward wouldn't escape her again.

Fire roared on all sides, and Hermione ducked as the roof of a wagon fell in, sending splinters in all directions, a burning timber crashing almost on top of her. Coughing, she got a lungful of smoke.

_Where the hell was Charlie?_ How long had it been? It had seemed an age, but time moved oddly in battle, and Hermione had seen more than her fair share. She ducked an impediment curse, and another, shoving the shadows that sprang up in front of her out of the way, flinging curses over her shoulders. Merlin's beard, how many Death Eaters were there?

Shouting, off to her right–Hermione swerved that way, jumping the tongue of a wagon and flinging a few curses in that direction, her eyes always on Pettigrew, growing ever smaller ahead, until he finally sprang into his rat shape, pausing to seize an object that glittered in the firelight. She put on an extra burst of speed, seeing the end of the caravan ahead of him, and a stretch of clear road. Shit.

Vaulting the overturned bow of the last wagon, Hermione paused, breathed, and aimed...

An _Impediment _curse bowled her over, and as she fell, Hermione screamed for the other Aurors, watching the shadows of two flicker along the treeline past her, following Pettigrew.

Rolling to her hands and knees, Hermione gasped for breath. The curse had knocked the wind out of her.

A heavy boot caught her side and knocked her over onto her back, her wand falling from her hand. Towering over her, Hermione saw a glint of the palest gold hair half-hidden beneath the hood of a cloak. Through the mask of a Death Eater, Hermione saw a flicker of grey eyes that she recognized.

_"It's you?" _Lucius breathed in a hiss, raising his wand. "A Mudblood Auror?"

She hadn't the foggiest idea what he was talking about, but her hand inched toward her wand as he spoke, until the same boot came down painfully on her wrist.

"I'm going to enjoy this," Lucius said, taking off his mask so she could see his face. Wildly, she thought how unfair it would be to get killed by her future father in-law. Well, maybe. And Lucius Malfoy would be killing his own son. _"Avad–"_

_"Stupefy!"_

Lucius dropped almost gracefully, and almost on top of Hermione, that long hair spilling over his face. Flinching with disgust, she shoved him off, snatching up her wand and taking Morag's hand to stand up.

With an expression of the utmost distaste, Morag lashed Lucius to a nearby wagon wheel, with another _stupefy _for good measure.

"Make sure he stays down," he growled, raking dark hair out of his eyes. "Come on, I think they've cornered Pettigrew–"

A tremendous explosion rocked the smoldering caravan, and both Hermione and Morag were thrown backwards, covering their heads against a shower of debris. Hermione was up and running toward the crater almost before the ground had steadied, dreading already what she would find there. It would not be the first time Pettigrew had saved himself by blowing up everyone in his vicinity.

It was a terrible choice, chasing after the rat or stopping to help her friends, but Hermione made it. She went after Pettigrew, firing a _Lumos _into the sky that made the road ahead nearly as clear as day.

There ahead, the small brown form of a rat darting this way and that, too panicked, apparently, to dart into the trees where he would have cover. Hermione's smile was as cold as Lucius Malfoy's ever was as she paused and took aim.

_"Accio Eye!" _She shouted, and another woman's voice sounded almost simultaneously.

_"Protego!"_

From the trees came the shape of a tall woman, a thick knot of hair on the back of her neck. Even through the mask, Hermione would have known that voice, that arrogant posture, anywhere.

Bellatrix Black Lestrange.

"Well, little Mudblood, we've certainly grown up, haven't we?" She cooed. "Thought we would catch the rat?" She spoke in horrible mock-baby talk that Hermione had heard only once before, in the battle where Sirius was killed. Never in her life had she felt such loathing.

_"Stupefy!"_

_"Protego!" _Warily, they circled, wands up, and Bellatrix laughed almost hysterically. "You've lost, little girl. In a few moments, the Dark Lord will have the Eye in his hands."

It was true, Hermione thought despairingly. They had failed. Pettigrew was gone. That didn't mean Bellatrix was going to escape, though, Hermione thought, hardening her will.

_"Petrificus!"_

_"Crucio!"_

The beams struck, refracted, and Hermione ducked as shards of both went over her head, almost scorching her hair. She rolled, and kept rolling, just ahead of Bellatrix's curses, which struck the ground with blackened marks. Back to her feet, where she faced Bellatrix again. The woman was almost inhumanly fast.

Keep her talking. Bloody woman loves to talk. Get under her guard that way.

"You're still serving your Mudblood Lord?" Hermione scoffed. "Voldemort, the son of a Witch and a Muggle? How are you dealing with that, _Bellatrix?"_

Hermione ducked as a _crucio!_ blasted over her head, and rolled to one side, avoiding another. Perhaps angering Bellatrix had not been the best idea.

"You're not fit to speak his name, Muggle!" Bellatrix shrieked, and then shrieked all the louder, as if she were fighting invisible hands, some compulsion that stopped her in her tracks. Snarling, she shot a final curse at Hermione, and vanished.

Such rage went through her that Hermione almost literally saw red. Breathing, focusing, she searched ahead for where Bellatrix had gone–not back to England, that was almost impossible, even for the most highly trained Wizards. No, somewhere nearby...

A hand caught Hermione's shoulder as she was about to go after the Death Eater, and she turned to see Susan Bones, holding a rag to her head to staunch the flow of blood. Her brown hair was matted with it.

"They got it, Hermione. Don't get yourself killed for nothing." The girl's mouth twisted. "We'll get it back."

Oh, yes, they would.

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It was only a few moments later that Aurors and members of the Order began Apparating into the wood, having passed through the Dragon's Door first. Though she couldn't really blame them, it was too little, too late. Pettigrew was gone. They had failed. _She _hadfailed.

Somberly, they gathered up Hestia Jones and Stewart Ackerley, helping a dazed Justin Finch-Fletchley to his feet. Hestia and Stewart were dead. Tonks was out, but was coming around.

Obliviators were herding the Muggles together, Aurors were dousing the flames and putting the wagons to rights, and Charlie was visible, wrestling with wild-eyed horses. And there, talking to Morag, were Kingsley Shacklebolt and Mad-Eye Moody.

She wasn't ready to feel dread, approaching them. Hermione was still boiling with rage.

"I fucked up," She said clearly, coming to stand beside Morag. "They got away with it. Goddammit, they got away."

"There were almost twenty of them, Hermione," Morag said wearily, one of his hands clasped to a shoulder that was bleeding profusely.

"They got away."

"You're bleeding," said Moody curtly. "We'll talk about all this later, Granger. Get your people together."

_What's left of them._

Lucius Malfoy was gone, too. Hermione kicked a wagon wheel and swore again.

Two Aurors she didn't know carried Stewart by, his face frozen forever in a rictus of utter surprise. And there, Hestia, her mouth set and grim, eyes staring solemnly upward, where the light of Hermione's _lumos _flare was fading. In the flickering firelight and smoke, it all had the unreal quality of a nightmare. Muggle women were wailing over their dead husbands, their dead children, their dead friends, killed when Pettigrew blew up the front of the caravan, or some, just unfortunate enough to have gotten in the line of fire.

All her fault.

She had known there were Aurors ahead of her in Romania, searching for the Death Eaters. And there were three of them, varying in appearance and all dead: Constance MacDougal, Henry Bigglesworth, and Terry Boot.

The Auror carrying Terry nearly dropped him, and Hermione hurried forward, taking Terry's shoulders and trying desperately not to look at what was left of his face. Terry had been in the explosion.

Terry, quiet soul that he was, had been in Dumbledore's Army in fifth year.

Slightly away from the Muggle dead, the Aurors were laid out, five dead, possibly six, unless Seamus had only looked as bad as she thought he was.

She couldn't think. Surely, in all the chaos, there was something she could be doing. Instead, she watched as Moody and Kingsley spread cloaks over the dead Aurors.

_Hermione Granger fucked up._

It was a pretty pitiful epitaph.

The Muggles were finally silent, and now there was only the muffled roar of fire still burning, whispered conversation, the urgent instruction of whoever the hell was in charge of this mess. It surely wasn't her. There hadn't been Auror casualties like this since...

For once, Hermione's knowledge of history deserted her utterly, and it didn't fucking matter, did it? Not when the dead lay at her feet.

Her head swam, and Hermione dropped to her knees. Not from exhaustion, not from blood loss, but from the sheer weight of it all. She couldn't bear it and remain standing. 't..._look..._

And because she was Hermione Granger, she forced herself to look. Forced herself up, after a few moments, to douse the fires and turn the wagons back over, to help the Muggles bury their dead. She might have failed in everything else, but this much, she would do.


	13. What is Life and Death

The common room in the Romanian Department of Dragon Care was empty. Most of the Aurors had returned to England, and the remains of Hermione's team–Susan Bones, Morag MacDougal, Tonks, Justin Finch-Fletchley–slept deeply in the rooms off the Common Room. They would return to England in the morning.

For her part, and as some form of self-flagellation, Hermione was writing letters to the families of the Aurors killed in the battle. Seamus Finnegan had died without regaining consciousness.

That stung neither more nor less than the deaths of the other Aurors, though she had known Seamus for a long time and liked him. He was a Gryffindor of her year; another member of the D.A, and a member of the Order. Almost all of Dumbledore's Army had joined the Order. He had been friends with Harry and Ron. He had dated Ginny Weasley, briefly, during seventh year. Much to Ron's obvious discomfort.

He was Seamus Finnegan, and she mourned him inarticulately.

By guttering candlelight, her quill scratched on. She found that tears were falling on the parchment, smudging her neat handwriting, and thought that was odd. Mechanically, she reached for another piece of parchment, starting over.

_Dear Mr. And Mrs. MacDougal,_

_I write to offer my condolences on the loss of your daughter, Constance MacDougal. She was killed during a pitched battle, doing her utmost to protect witches and wizards everywhere. She fought bravely and her loss is a great blow to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I hardly have words to express..._

Constance MacDougal was Morag's cousin, and Hermione didn't like to think of the look on Morag's face when he had seen her, wheat-coloured hair tangled with brush and bracken, one long scratch marring an eternally pale cheek.__

Six letters, and Hermione almost wished for Professor Umbridge's quill, so she could write the letters in her own blood. Maybe it was melodramatic, but every word carved her despair a little more deeply.

But at least she was alive. Not that she particularly cared at this point, but her death would have meant Draco died, too. She had not yet gone deeply enough into her hurt to wonder why he hadn't come; why he hadn't been there to help her. She had known when they parted that he had other work; known that he could not always be watching through her eyes.

Hermione had known she was coming to Romania on her own, depending on her own intelligence and ability to succeed, to find the Eye before the Death Eaters did. And it hadn't been enough.

The little barn owls hooted almost reassuringly in their cages as she released them, one by one, back to families waiting tensely in England, hoping for the best, preparing for the worst. She wondered how Seamus Finnegan's Mam would take it.

A sound escaped her on that thought, and Hermione stuffed her fist in her mouth, hating the broken tone of it. What right had she to hurt?

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He was waiting for her in her flat, and Draco had no idea what he would say to her, even as he stared at her across a room that suddenly seemed enormous. She was perhaps ten feet away, and the distance was impossible.

It took a moment before Hermione saw him, dropping her keys in a bowl by the door, hanging her robes up in the closet. Her face was drawn and pale, eyes red. Even with wild hair and wilder eyes, she was still beautiful enough to make his breath catch. A bandage was wrapped around one slim bicep, though it would come off in a few hours. Draco felt the wound there knitting as if his own arm were gashed.

Worse was the pain that punched through him with every beat of her heart–because he took all of her pain, not just the physical kind. If this were a physical wound, she'd be bleeding to death.

With an uncertainty, a hesitance, he had never felt before, Draco licked his lips and stepped forward.

It took a moment for her to see him.

"Draco," she said tonelessly. Stared up with eyes that were dead and shuttered. Wordlessly, she went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk. Her free arm went around herself as if to ward off a chill. Or maybe to keep from falling apart; there was something fragile in her demeanor, as if she were holding together by only the barest of threads.

Draco knew that look. He knew what it was to be too late; knew what it was to fall and fail and watch someone die because of it. And cruel as it was, it would be her lover that would break her. Because only when she broke could she heal.

"Hermione," he said, taking the empty glass from her hands and setting it on the counter, as she didn't seem to know what to do with it. "You failed."

The words came like a death-blow to her, and he braced himself against her agony. Her lips were trembling, her fists bunching at her sides.

"Six people are dead." Draco continued ruthlessly, forcing his face into blankness, not daring to do what he wanted to do: grab her and whisper that it _wasn't _her fault, that there had been nothing more she could have done. She wasn't ready to hear that yet; was incapable of believing it now. "The Dark Lord has the Eye. I'm sure the Death Eaters will celebrate first, and congratulate themselves, but the Dark Lord will be coming for us. Because of you."

Hermione's face was dead white. Although he was only telling her what she had been telling herself every moment of every hour since the battle, she couldn't stand to hear it out loud. Not from him.

It wasn't entirely unexpected that she slap him; his head rocked back as he took the blow silently.

_"You came here to tell me that?"_ Her voice cracked and soared over the words, and she hit him again. Mostly because she couldn't hit herself.

"You failed," he said again, wincing at the pain and hating himself for what he was doing to her.

"I _know!"_ Hermione shrieked, pummelling him. "They're dead because of me! Because I _wasn't _clever enough, because we were too slow, because we underestimated them!"

Draco caught her hands before she could hit him again, dragging her down the hallway to her bedroom, flinching as she kicked him in the shin, still yelling at the top of her lungs. At him, for failing to warn her, to come to her, to help her; at the Ministry, for sending a piddly dozen wizards to search for the Eye; at herself, for being so arrogant, so certain of her own cleverness, so positive that she would win because she was in the Order, because she Hermione Granger of _Gryffindor, _and the good guys weren't supposed to lose.

"And you came here to tell me that?" She finished, tears streaming down her face. "You came here to tell me that _I failed_? Is _that_ your information for me this time?" She slapped him again, and he tasted blood. "Is _that_ what I should take to Dumbledore and Moody?" And there, small fists–on his chest, in his ribs, backed with all her hurt and anger, which packed a considerable wallop.

Whatever else she was trying to say, he couldn't make it out, and with a groan she fell into his arms, sobbing brokenly. His hand found her chin and forced it up, his lips catching hers, teeth and tongue, a bruising kiss that was a dull echo of pain. Hermione tried to turn her face away, pushing against his chest, and he forced her back to him grimly, for once taking no pleasure in the taste of her mouth. She had come from a fight where others had died, and she had lived. This, too, she needed to remember.

With a small sound of rage, she tore out of his grip and stared at him, panting, almost hating him as he stood there, his handsome face so impassive.

Grabbing his wrist, she yanked him onto the bed, put him underneath her, as supernally beautiful there as he had been standing. Bending, she kissed him; struck him again. Angrier now, because she could see in his eyes something she needed, something he wasn't giving her.

"Hermione..."

"Shut _up. _I fucking hate you." Her hands belied her words, stripping off his shirt, as if the key lay somewhere on his broad bare chest. Whatever his next words were going to be–even Draco didn't know–were swallowed in a gasp as she gripped him almost roughly through his trousers.

"You failed," he repeated, and hoped she didn't hurt him too badly.

The look that she gave him was one of the purest rage, and he helped her with her shirt, popping a few buttons as it came off. She hit him again, and that was starting to make him angry, even though he did his damnedest to fight it.

It had never been so hot. Hermione knelt up above him, stripping off her jeans, giving him a knee to the ribs in passing, just to watch him glare at her. Yanked off his trousers, almost frantic now, needing something–_anything–_that would force all of this out of her mind, make her feel _something_.

And Draco just lay there, face twisted, watching her move, knowing in some deep, still-thinking part of himself that Hermione had to take this from him; that he _couldn't _give it. He couldn't force her to live again.

She shoved him into her, gasping, still striking, fingernails raking a bloodied set of parallel lines on his chest. No idea what she was doing; no knowledge of what she was searching for so desperately, as she rocked on him, one hand balancing her on the headboard.

"You _failed, _Hermione. You _fucked up,_" Draco spat, grasping the smooth globes of her buttocks and pushing her harder, grinding her onto him, thrusting up into her. Hermione groaned aloud, her other hand on his sweat-slick chest, nails digging in painfully. Perspiration streamed off both their bodies, pooling at the burning base of their connection, until she was almost dizzy with the heat. Moving on him, Draco within her, incoherent cries falling, a sea of tears, the broken pieces of herself that she had swallowed again and again.

Letting go of the headboard, Hermione drew her hair up off her shoulders, fisting her hands in it as she moved, the slender silken steel of her muscles working ceaselessly toward whatever end.

Then they were exploding, so hot Hermione wondered that her blood wasn't boiling in her veins, raking Draco's shoulders as he rolled over her, into her, finishing them both as Hermione's head struck the headboard, her inarticulate cries of hurt and love and confusion rising as the descant to their climax.

"I love you, Draco, Merlin, I love you!" she almost sobbed, even as he stretched taut over and within her, holding her to him as if she were the summation of all things good and beautiful...the last good thing he could call his own.

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A storm of tears followed the interlude, until at last Hermione lay still and silent in his arms, not sleeping, but exhausted. She would be all right, now.

And Draco was thinking.

Having been exposed to the Muggle's God, he had had a decent amount of time, during sleepless nights and endless days, to ponder what that could mean. Given the odd twists and turns of fate, he had developed the theory that if there was a Deity, His/Her job consisted of placing frail mortals in absolutely appalling circumstances and watching with vulgar interest to see how they handled it.

Draco knew what he had to do.

The knowledge of what it could mean left him quailing, his arms tightening around Hermione as their bodies cooled. She murmured something and burrowed closer, her head on his chest, listening to the slow unfailing rhythm of his heart.

God, Deity, Merlin, he loved her.

"'Mione?"

"Hmmm?"

"I love you."

"Love you," she said quietly, her voice hoarse. "You knew what I needed."

"Yes." He drew her up, pressing a soft kiss on her lips. "Remember Muggle Studies?"

_"You _took Muggle studies?"

"Know your enemy," he said sarcastically, smiling nonetheless. "It was a shock treatment, my love."

Startled, she turned, putting her chin on his chest and staring at him with wide brown eyes. "A _shock treatment?"_

Draco nodded, unable to suppress a grin as he watched her turn it over in her mind. He still remembered the day when Professor Fingol informed them that Muggles had once treated their mentally ill with electrical shock therapy.

Hermione laughed at that, almost breathlessly, finding the laughter as cleansing as the tears. "Oh, sweet Circe," she gasped. "Draco, I'll have to kill you if you ever do that to me again."

"Try not to," he said, kissing her. With her tangled hair and soft mouth, she was almost irresistible.

Hermione clung to him, pulling him closer when he would have broken it off, deepening the kiss into something entirely different from the frenzy of an hour before. He loved her and she loved him. Surely everything else would work out, somehow.

Draco's hands went over her body, relishing the smoothness of her skin, working away the little knots in her shoulders with gentle hands. Her slender frame was like dusky satin, gilded ivory, smooth and clean and his. At least, for a little while longer.

Love was sweet and slow, his body finding hers warm and ready for him, holding him to her with a trembling that was new and absolutely lovely. Now was the time for finesse and grace, to make an art of it, to leave her so certain of him that she would hold him to her heart always. Hands and lips, mouth and breath, every inch of his sensitized flesh was hers, and he gave it unstintingly, moving her to soft cries as he rocked within her.

It was darkness and it was silent, an adagio before the light was extinguished completely. It was, though Hermione didn't know it, and wouldn't until it was too late, goodbye. He was taking the memory of her with him, the scent of her etched in his skin.

Her hands went through his pale hair, drawing his mouth to hers, and Hermione wrapped her legs around his, relishing the smooth strength of him, the tallness of him, the solidity of the arms wrapped around her. Her Draco. Their climax was light and song, and Hermione slept deeply beside him, sated, satiated, clean, and utterly spent.

And Draco lay awake beside her, watchful through the long hours of darkness, moving occasionally to take her in his arms, to breathe her in.

When Hermione woke in the morning, the mattress beside her was cold.

She knew where he had gone.

_Author's Notes_

_This always seemed like a risky chapter to me, so let me know if it's too melodramatic. Haven't done disclaimers in a bit, so here they are: JK Rowling's characters, not mine, et cetera, ad infinitum. Thanks also to the Harry Potter Lexicon for the combat spells in the last chapter. And endless thanks to my reviewers. _


	14. Cry Havoc

_"Crucio!"_

The thing that had been Lucius Malfoy shuddered boneless on the floor before the Dark Lord's throne, too far gone to even scream anymore. Little did he know that his mantra–_failed, failed, failed–_was running through the mind of a certain Mudblood Auror at almost precisely that moment.

For Lucius Malfoy, Death Eater, however, there would be no second chances.

The sound of Voldemort's laughter, shrill and empty and horrible, reached ears that could hear, but no longer understand. The sight of Voldemort's face, alien and frightening, reached eyes that could see, but could no longer comprehend.

The power of the Eye was such that it more than doubled a Wizard's power; it could, given the proper emotions, quadruple it.

Vengeance and sadistic pleasure being two such proper emotions.

In a circle around Lucius, the other Death Eaters watched, faces hidden behind their masks. For some, it was fearful warning; for others, it was an opportunity to lick suddenly dry lips in pleasure. This was _pain, _and there were those who found it a delicious treat.

Though the room was crowded and hot with it, over fifty Death Eaters present, there were many more. Death Eaters awaiting the signal to create a bloodbath the likes of which the Wizarding world had ever seen before. It would be death; it would be carnage; it would be better sport than they had known in over twenty years.

Through their own spies, through their network of Ministry of Magic employees under the Imperious Curse, there was a long list of Aurors and members of the accursed Order of the Phoenix, and those Muggle-loving fools would bear the brunt of the first assault. Backed by the power of the Eye, channelled through their Dark Lord, the Death Eaters would be unstoppable.

Bellatrix Lestrange was laughing helplessly, almost doubled over. The Death Eaters knew where they lived. Oh, what an apropos and usually meaningless threat! And soon, the Order would find out just how meaningless it _wasn't._

Voldemort paused, cocking his head to hear Lucius keening softly, like the death screams of a baby rabbit. Music. A symphony.

_"Crucio!"_

_This _was the price of failure. This was the cost of the Dark Lord's displeasure. Several Death Eaters shifted uncomfortably, staring at the wreckage of a man more powerful than they, more cunning than they, more ruthless. This had been _Lucius Malfoy, _and if he could fail...

Voldemort's eyes gleamed as he made mental note of those uncertain few. Because that was the way of the Death Eaters, the way of the Order that he had created. Those who were weaker, those who defied him, those who fought his vision of the world would be weeded out. His thin lips curled upward. That, too, was part of the fun.

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__

Her head throbbed dully as she mounted the steps to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, pulsing with weariness, omnipresent worry, and dread at what she might find within. The _Daily Prophet _that morning had been hysterical with the sudden onslaught of the Death Eaters. Invading homes. Invading businesses. The Ministry had repelled an attack in the night, while she had been sleeping beside Draco..._and the presses never stopped rolling,_ Hermione thought disgustedly, and half-wished the Death Eaters would do something about that. But no, as ever, the press was doing an admirable job of terrifying everyone. Lord Voldemort would be endlessly pleased.

Harry opened the door before she could knock and hugged her so fiercely, her bones creaked.

"Thank Merlin," he rasped. Several days' stubble of beard scratched her cheek as he picked her up, and then transferred her to Ron, who was equally stubbly and red-eyed with exhaustion. "They're picking us off, 'Mione. They know who we are."

"I know," she said, and staggered into the crowded and unusually silent living room. "I didn't get the Eye."

"You tried," Ron said fiercely. "Morag told us what happened."

Hermione's eyes went to the lean, dark man, who looked as if he hadn't slept since the skirmish in Romania.

"They got Ernie last night," Morag said tonelessly. "I was too late."

"And they got Rogier," said Fleur from the sofa, where she was clinging, white-faced, to Bill's hand.

"Roger Davies," Harry said quietly, and Hermione sank down into an armchair and pressed her fingers against her eyelids. The little dragon crooned soothingly.

"Hannah's gone off again," Ron said, kneeling beside Hermione. "We think she's been hunting Death Eaters by herself. Dumbledore says she...she couldn't handle it. Neville."

"Are we going after her?"

"Soon. Dumbledore's looking for her. Trying to figure out where they're going to attack next." Harry handed Hermione a cup of steaming black coffee, an odd mixture of host and soldier as he tapped his wand against his thigh, vibrating tension. "Sarah Fawcett betrayed us."

"Did she," Hermione said, feeling her way around the sudden harshness in her voice. "She's been dealt with?"

"She has," Morag said, equally harsh. "Ernie's dead because of that bitch."

Perched on the edge of the sofa, Susan Bones turned haunted eyes toward Hermione. "So's my Aunt Amelia."

"She killed three before they got her," said Harry, and straightened abruptly. Defeat was in the room, curling as insidiously as smoke, and his eyes went to Susan, to Morag, to Fleur. To gaunt Emmeline Vance, standing by the hearth, running her fingers over the laughing picture of Sirius, the smiling picture of Harry's parents on their wedding day. To the other members of the Order, all of whom had been too late, too slow to see, too stunned to act in time.

"We're going to stop them." He drew their eyes to him, willed them to believe it. Assumed, finally, the leadership he had so often shunned.

"Who haven't we heard from?" Hermione asked, forcing herself out of her stupor. "We need to know what members of the Order, what Aurors are still alive. Where they are. We need to organise."

"Moody and Kingsley are working on it," Ron said, "and so are Dad and George."

"Everyone's getting their families out," Bill added. "And some Aurors left with them."

"Cowards," Morag spat contemptuously.

Susan stood and put a quelling hand on his arm. Morag glanced down at her, drew a visibly calming breath.

"Parvati is looking for Hannah," said Padma from the floor, her dark head bowed as she plucked at the threadbare rug. "Hannah's been wandering Knockturn Alley in an invisibility cloak for months, trying to find out who the Death Eaters were, what they were doing. I didn't say anything, because I thought she had a right to her revenge. I should have...and Parvati hasn't come back..."

"We'll find them," Harry said quickly, cutting her off. "Hermione's right. We need to organise. We need everyone here, and we need them to know their families are safe, so they can fight without worrying. We need _time,"_ he added, a touch of desperation in his voice.

"Has anyone tried the mirrors?" Ron asked. There was a collective shaking of heads. "Alberic. Fleur, get Dumbledore's list and start calling everyone that way, too. Tell them to get here."

"And we need more Floo powder," Harry said thoughtfully. "We can send the families somewhere safe from here."

"I'll get it," Susan said, and grabbed Padma's shoulder in passing. "Padma, you come with me."

"Good idea. No one goes anywhere alone," Hermione said, shutting away all extraneous thought as she focused on the situation at hand. It was a relief. "What does Dumbledore have everyone doing? _Conscripsi."_

Scroll, quill, and ink pot appeared, and Ron, seeing which way the wind was blowing, Summoned chairs and table from the kitchen, sending the sofas and armchairs against the walls of the living room.

"We need maps," Harry said. "Every village, every city, and where the magic communities and businesses are. We need guards at St. Mungo's and the Ministry. And Diagon Alley," he added.

Hermione was writing furiously, and the rest drew up chairs, Morag going to the cellar meeting room to fetch maps.

"Ron, where's your Mum?" Hermione asked, starting her third list.

"With Ginny, trying to keep the refugees under control at the Ministry."

"Professor Lupin?"

"Flooing back from Spain."

"Dadelus?"

"With Professor Lupin."

"Hagrid?"

"Bringing back the giants," Harry replied, with grim pleasure. "The ones that agreed to Dumbledore's treaty, anyway."

"Tonks?"

"We don't know yet," Bill said, pinning the maps to the table.

"Sturgis?"

"Don't know."

"Elphias?"

Hermione met Bill's gaze and added another question mark to her list.

All told, fifty of nearly one hundred members of the Order were accounted for. Fleur reappeared moments later, tugging her curtain of silvery hair up into a ponytail as she handed Hermione her list.

"There were not many at 'ome," she said, sitting beside Bill. "I told them to come 'ere. They are–_comment dit-on?–_frightened."

"They'd best get over it," Ron said under his breath. "We need more than guards, Harry. We need to find out who and where the Death Eaters are, _all of them,_ and take the fight to them."

"We need the Aurors Roster," replied Morag. "The Order can't do everything. I say we let the Aurors pull guard duty, and let the Order go find the Death Eaters."

"We'll wait until Moody and Kingsley get here to decide that," Hermione said quickly, forestalling the debate. "We need everyone here and safe before we do anything. We need to get their families away."

"We have to do something, _now,"_ he retorted. "We're not playing the fucking defensive game. _They _attacked _us._"

"Yes, and we're going to kill them for it," Harry snapped, "but we're not going to run off and hope we stumble into them. Which is what Hannah fucking did, and it's probably going to get _her _killed."

"I didn't say–" Morag began heatedly, and Hermione slammed her ink pot on the table, ink splattering all over the maps.

"And _we,"_ she snapped, "are not going to sit here and fight among ourselves about this! _Scourgify." _The ink vanished from the maps and she stood, eyes flashing. "We _all_ want them dead. We've _all_ lost someone, or two, or three."

"Or six!" Morag shouted, his chair overturning as he snapped to his feet. "Six Aurors the night before last, Hermione! On _your _damned watch!"

The silence was thick, and belatedly, he realized what he'd said. Righted his chair with a wave of his wand, and sat back down wearily. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault. I just...can't _sit _here."

"I know," she replied through frozen lips. Sat down with six faces dancing before her eyes, all in various states of shock, surprise, pain...or peace, as Constance's eternally pale features flitted through her memory. All dead. "I don't know what I could have done differently, but I was in charge. I was responsible."

From her mouth, Draco's words. She managed a very crooked smile. It had been her _responsibility,_ she thought, remembering his distinction. Fault implied some element of control.

Into the silence, Emmeline Vance glanced at her watch and spoke.

"Why haven't Susan and Padma got back yet?"

For a moment, eighteen-some witches and wizards gaped at her.

"Shit. Shit." Harry got to his feet and lunged for the mirror above the mantle. "Diagon Alley."

The mirror fogged, wavered, and cleared. Smoke. Flames. Dim cracklings of light from individual duels. One wizard clearly visible in the corner of the mirror, away from the smoke, clutching his midsection and soundlessly screaming. Witches throwing their children over their shoulders, grasping their hands, running as their packages scattered.

With a _crack _that shook the house like thunder, Dumbledore appeared. Glanced at the gathered witches and wizards, then at the mirror.

"Hagrid's on his way. Molly and Ginny are coming back here. We have to go _now."_

Hermione glanced at Morag and managed a tiny, rueful smile. He'd asked for something to do.

_Author's Notes_

_This is another new chapter, which is intended to increase the scope of the war and hopefully add depth to the characters. If you've read the whole story before this, please let me know what you think of this chapter as far as matching the rest, and whether or not you think it constitutes "filler" rather than adding depth, et cetera. The old questions still apply as far as consistency and tone, as well._

_The French "comment dit-on" means, "How do you say..." I've noticed that people tend to revert to their native language when they're stressed. Thanks again to my reviewers, and if you haven't–or if you have and feel the need–please do you review._


	15. The Dogs of War

The fires roared and smoke rolled, oily and black, through the wide cobbled street of Diagon Alley. Craters littered the road, and the metal tables and chairs at Florean Fortescue's outdoor patio were melted masses of twisted metal. For the first time in her life, Hermione thought, _war zone,_ and understood what it meant.

Twenty members of the Order paused, awaiting instruction. Most were Auror-trained, and instinctively broke off into groups of three and four, scanning all sides and coughing as the smoke swirled around them. It was the landscape of a nightmare.

"I can blow the smoke away," Hermione said, drawing the neck of her shirt up over her nose and mouth to filter it out, "but unless the fires are put out, it won't do a damn bit of good."

"We'll split up," Harry said, and repeated it more loudly for the benefit of the other Aurors. "Two groups of four down Knockturn Alley. Let it burn to ashes, but make sure no one's hiding there. Send up a flare if you need help. Morag, Emmeline. You lead them. Come back to this spot if you don't see anyone, and send a flare from here. We'll send up a flare, to answer, and you follow it to us."

This was all standard operating procedure, albeit unused in centuries. But that wasn't the point. Harry's voice was firm, calm, confident. Exactly what they needed to hear, and despite the smoke, despite the screams still ringing above the fire, Hermione saw the others draw courage from him.

Dumbledore was already striding ahead, his head up, as if he were searching for a scent on the wind. Crackling with energy, his face cold and fierce. Only once, and years before, had Hermione heard an account from someone who had actually seen him fight. It would be a great and terrible thing when they found the Death Eaters, and she anticipated it with a grim smile. The Death Eaters feared Dumbledore as they feared no other, and she wanted to see the bastards try to fly.

Fanning out, the remaining dozen witches and wizards moved down the alley after Dumbledore, pausing here and there to check a still body for a pulse; to press a Knut or a pebble into the hands of a wild-eyed woman, or the occasional bewildered child. Portkeys all, and it would send them somewhere safe. If nothing else, it was a grim tribute to Seamus Finnegan's cleverness; many of the Aurors were keeping pebbles or coins in their pockets habitually. Just in case. And, Hermione thought, as she blotted the tears from a little boy's face before sending him on his way, it was a good thing they had.

There had not been a war like this in living memory, or even in some of the mouldering tomes of the Aurors' library.

The smoke cleared further down, but the little dragon was growing agitated as they moved, and Hermione caught Harry's arm, scanning on all sides. They were close. Dumbledore paused at almost the same moment, and then moved faster than Hermione had ever seen him move, with a shout of warning. The Order scattered as countless curses scorched the air around them. Killing Curses, Displodo Charms, the blue beams of Freezing Charms, the _Cruciatus_ Curse. Red bolts of Stupefying Charms.

Ambush.

From perhaps fifty yards distant, the cloaked and masked forms of Death Eaters surged forward, wands flashing, and the responding volley from the Order dropped a few. Not enough.

Dimly, Hermione heard Harry roaring, rallying them, and the Order counterattacked, moving from corner to bench to storefront, a battle of attrition against superior numbers.

Then Dumbledore was in the thick of it, _glowing _with it. The fanatically pruned trees lining the side of the road uprooted themselves, thundering down on the Death Eaters; benches tore their cemented feet from the ground and hurled themselves wherever the Death Eaters dared to congregate.

And still there were more, sinister figures in the late morning sunlight.

Moody's voice breathed into her ear.

_Pick one, Granger. Another. Another. Numbers don't matter. The will matters. Whoever wavers first, dies._

_"Stupefy!"_

_"Protego!"_

_"Displodo!"_

_"Contego!"_

__And again, another volley as she moved to the corner of the Magical Menagerie, the windows smashed and the animals long since fled. Fleur rolled past her in a flash of silvery hair and garnet robes that had seen better days, just ahead of a flurry of _cruciatus _curses. Briefly, the smoke drifted, obscuring Hermione's vision, but she picked out the Death Eater targeting Fleur.

"Kill them!" shouted Harry. Her aim wavered for a second, and then she stiffened herself. As per orders.

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

It was not something she had ever felt before, or ever cared to feel again. A spell of pure malevolence, and it came from her. It came from her own well of hatred, her own desire to make them feel pain. To _end _them. To watch them fold up and die on the cobbles. A bit of darkness that was all her own.

But Harry was right. This was not a rebellion; this was not magical law enforcement. This was war, and it would be a war they would lose if they did not only defeat the other side, but destroy them.

Then there was no time, and the Death Eaters were on them.

She was pinned in the storefront beside Fleur, both wands flashed in unison, working seamlessly together. Defend, deflect, attack. Move, move, move.

Dumbledore whirled from the midst of the street, his mouth moving soundlessly, lost in the roar of flames and the chaos of battle. White fire exploded from his wand, catching the Death Eaters in an icy grip that sent them shivering and reeling to the street. For a moment.

_It wasn't working._

Slowly but surely, thought her voice was hoarse from shouting, the Order was being pushed back. Even Dumbledore, too sensible to let himself be surrounded, was being pushed back, by sheer numbers, and something more. The curses and hexes weren't working. The Death Eaters recovered too quickly. There was something–

Hermione gasped as she retreated, hauling Fleur after her down the road. _The Eye._

__Desperately, she caught Dumbledore's gaze, mouthed the words, and hoped he understood. He nodded, not in the least surprised, and she wondered why she bothered telling him anything. He always knew. He was always a step ahead.

Except for now. Retreat became rout, and the Death Eaters pushed onward as Hermione and Fleur ran. Harry caught up with them and shoved them ahead, nodding grimly to Ron.

With a whistling shriek worthy of the best of Fred and George's fireworks, the flare went into the sky, summoning the eight witches and wizards who had gone to Knockturn Alley.

It was not those eight that answered.

From the smoke behind them, a bull roar. Enormous forms, heads towering above the smoke, the ground shaking beneath their massive feet.

Hagrid had arrived with the giants.

A dozen witches and wizards turned in unison, and let fly with another round of hexes and curses, the green light of the Killing Curse whistling from both sides. And the giants waded in, enormous hands striking, feet kicking, stomping, foam flying from gap-toothed mouths. The Order moved swiftly to flank the Death Eaters, letting the giants head the charge.

The Death Eaters began winking out of sight, skipping, to points visible from wherever they stood. A modified form of Apparating that left time and energy to fight, and the Order swiftly countered desperately, Ron firing another flare into the sky before he, too, winked out, reappearing a few feet left of where he had been.

And still, there were too many.

Fleur's shriek rose to an eardrum-puncturing pitch, and Hermione turned just in time to see Bill Weasley flying backward, striking the cobbles, his face already shocked and empty. The green light of the curse that had killed him still illumined him, leached the colour from his face, and he skidded to a halt near Fleur's feet.

The battle went on for others, but it momentarily ceased for Hermione, Ron, and Fleur. Ron turned first, his voice breaking with grief and rage as he killed the Death Eater who had murdered his brother, but it was the slowly rising moan from Fleur, the groan that built into a scream, that caught Hermione's attention, and even briefly distracted a giant or two.

Fleur's pretty face contorted, twisted, sharpened. Chin and cheekbones jutted; her eyes darkened and took on the flat brightness of a bird's. Scaly wings burst from her shoulders, and fire was in one hand, her wand in the other.

Rallying to her side, Hermione deflected the curses from the Veela, and let her rampage and burn, flinging fire and death with both hands. _Let her kill them. All._

__The rest of the Order arrived, and the outcome of the battle was no longer in doubt. Among them, Susan, Padma, Parvati, and Hannah emerged, rounding out two dozen enraged witches and wizards, Morag's dark eyes flashing with the light of battle. They were still outnumbered nearly three to one, but the giants made up the difference as they shrugged off the worst of the curses, Hagrid leading them with merciless and brutal efficiency.

The Death Eaters began departing, the _cracks _of Apparation rippling like popped corn, coldly dispatching their own, if they were incapable of fleeing. There would be no one left to question; no one left to seek clemency from the Ministry in exchange for information. The Death Eaters–Voldemort–had learned well the lessons of their own history.

A ringing silence, as the last of them vanished, and more than one member of the Order dropped to their knees in exhaustion, weaving silently. Morag hauled Susan against him and murmured into her hair, and Padma and Parvati embraced in quiet wonder, tears streaking identical faces.

From behind Hermione, leaden steps, and Ron approached, blocking her view of Fleur.

"How can I tell Mum?" He asked, freckles standing out like splotches of paint. "'Mione..."

"Fleur needs us," she said quietly, recalling him to duty. Ron would not want her to let him fall apart now. "Ron..."

Obediently, he turned, a curious blankness in his face. Shock. He wouldn't be the only one.

_"Mon amour. Feu de mon coeur. Pour-quoi dors-tu?"_

Fleur wasn't crying, yet. It was somehow worse that she wasn't. She sat beside Bill and shook his shoulder. _My love. Fire of my heart. Why are you sleeping?_

Hermione knelt, catching Fleur's free hand. The wings had gone, and her face would have been pretty again, if she didn't look like shattered glass.

"Fleur. _Il es mort."_

_"Non. Il dort. Il va se réveiller."_

"He's not going to wake up." Ron said hoarsely, and Hermione glanced sharply at him, startled that he had picked up any French. "Fleur...Fleur..."

Fleur's voice, higher-pitched and fragile as she shook Bill more sharply. _"Guillaume, leve-toi. Leve-toi."_ She darted a furious glance at Ron, as if he were at fault, but her eyes were beginning to glimmer with tears.

She couldn't stand it, Hermione thought vaguely. If she had to hear it–if she had to see the moment when Fleur realized...she was going to run mad.

Ron's arms went around Fleur, and Hermione released the woman's hand, hearing rather than watching Fleur's sobs begin as she collapsed into her brother-in-law's embrace.

She was a cold-hearted bitch, and she was terrified.

"Hermione?"

"Harry?"

She turned, and that soot-blackened face was the second most welcome sight in her life.

"Draco left this morning," she said, her words and her terror tumbling forth. Bill's death and Fleur's grief had burst the dam. "He's gone after the Eye, Harry, and what if...I couldn't stand it, Harry, I couldn't, and he's so reckless..."

"Shh. Shh." Harry gripped her arms, shook her lightly. "We have to get back to Headquarters. Moody and Kingsley will be back soon, if they aren't already." His green eyes caught hers, and held. "We have work to do, Hermione. We have to finish it."

Recalling her to duty, as she had called Ron. Hermione sniffed, and pushed it away, for now. There were others dead, others wounded, others wandering in shocked silence. They had won the battle.

Fleur's sobs rose, her slim body heaving.

But oh, Merlin, the cost.

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Many miles away, shuddering, Draco opened his eyes, unclenched his fists. She was alive. She had survived.

It was arrogance on a scale unparalleled in history to put his own task ahead of her life, and he recognized it as such. But unless he got that Eye...unless he kept its power from Voldemort, and by extension, the Death Eaters...the war was already over.

"She's alive," he whispered, and stood, joints creaking from long stillness, almost dizzy with relief. He needed to hear it again.

"She's alive."

_Author's notes:_

_The French:_

_"Fleur, he'd dead."_

_"No, he's sleeping. He's going to wake up."_

_"William, get up. Get up."_

_The first question, then, is whether you could guess the French in context. This is the fourth and likely final new chapter; the thought of seeing the giants, Dumbledore, and Fleur fight in Veela form was irresistable. Aside from that, I wanted, as I said, to add some scope to the war. And hopefully, a meaningful loss. I never did see all the Weasleys making it through._

_Oh, and my spells–_Displodo _and _Contego–_I've used displodo before. An explosion charm, as I said. _Contego_ is like _Protego,_ but it defends from physical harm rather than magical. Protego deflects Summoning charms and so forth; contego stops objects from impacting the wizard in question, i.e. blocking shards of wood, or stone, in this case. Many thanks to the University of Notre Dame latin translation site._

_And thanks very much for your reviews. If you haven't yet, please do. _


	16. The Order of the Phoenix

__Life goes on.

If Hermione ever heard those words again, or even a _variation _of those words, she was going to kill whoever said them, wrote them, or embroidered them on a pillow.

Five days had passed. Five chaotic, terrifying, and still endless days since the abortive battle in Diagon Alley, where she had struggled from one disaster to the next, and still the only thought that managed to stay with her was an endless _Draco, Draco, Draco._

Arrogant. Stupid. Selfish. Merlin, let him be all right.

Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks and she blinked them away, only slightly comforted by the movements of the little dragon on her back. Despite the danger, despite the unceasing attacks by Death Eaters, the loss and disappearance of who knew how many Aurors and members of the Order, she still had spent an inordinate amount of time studying the little guy on her back, watching to see if he faded, terrified that he would. He dozed, he purred, he rolled over on his back like a dog asking for a belly rub, but he hadn't faded.

If the Death Eaters had Draco, then that was no mercy. If the Death Eaters had Draco, she might not know it until they killed him.

Because of Draco's warnings, both the Ministry and the Order were not entirely unprepared, but the network of spies and wizards under the Imperious curse had been deep and deadly. The _Daily Prophet's _headlines screamed it, and for the first time in two decades, the very night air was filled with the screams of the grieving and the moans of the bereaved. The Dark Mark. _Morsmordre._ Flickering in the night sky over dozens of houses. A living nightmare, worse, oh, so much worse than it had been even two decades ago.

The Patil twins were missing. As was Lee Jordan, and both Fred and George's faces were rigid with anger held severely in check. Katie Bell, and Alicia Spinnet. Wayne Hopkins had been killed in the night, with his wife and son...two nights ago? And poor, batty Mrs. Figg was dead. Harry reported that the Dursleys had packed up and left for Portugal, on the off chance that the Death Eaters suspected any fondness at all between them and their unwanted nephew.

It was the Eye. It had to be, she thought dully. The Eye lent its power not only to Voldemort, but his followers. It was why they were being pushed back; why they had ultimately lost Diagon Alley to the Death Eaters, and were battling ceaselessly to hold the Ministry and St. Mungo's. They lost someone every day, fighting the Death Eaters. Bill...

_Stop it._

In the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, the house had taken on the air of a refugee camp. Only by the Fidelius Charm was it still secret; only by the wisdom and strength of Albus Dumbledore had that secret had been kept. As safe as it had ever been, back to when Mrs. Black had screamed doom onto the blood traitors and Mudbloods that gathered there.

Hermione stared for a moment with grim fascination at the two pictures on the wall in the kitchen, mentally marking off the new casualties in contrast with the old. And prayed with all her heart that history was not about to repeat itself. She was the last to go down the steps to the cellar; the last to take her seat beside Ginny, whose eyes were red and swollen from crying.

Percy Weasley slammed the door of the meeting room shut and nodded at Dumbledore, taking his seat beside his parents at a single long table that stretched the length of the room. It had taken time–years–but the reconciliation had come, though it was a grimmer, more uncertain Percy than had been before. It had taken the death of his wife to make him believe.

Instantly, the meeting room erupted in a cacophany of fear, rage, and grief.

It was a select group of the Order that were here, but in truth, that was all that was left. Anyone who had not been so quick, so ruthless, so clever, so lucky, was already dead. And more spies than Hermione liked to think of were dead as well, some of them at the hands of the people seated at the table with her.

Harry. Ron. All of the Weasleys except for Bill. Fleur sat on Mrs. Weasley's other side, her face bloodless and eyes staring, not yet recovered from her shock. Ginny, who was tearing at her lower lip with her teeth in an effort not to sob aloud: Dean Thomas had not returned from guard duty at the Ministry the night before.

Tonks, looking wan and less bumptious than usual, even with her lime-green hair.

Moody. Shacklebolt. Several other Aurors who sat tight-lipped, grim-faced, and shadowy-eyed.

Members of Dumbledore's Army from long ago, their families shoved into cramped rooms above or long gone to mainland Europe, or even to America.

Elphias Doge. Sturgis Podmore and Emmeline Vance. Professor Snape, still active in the Order, though discovery of his duplicity had cost him an arm two years ago. Hermione found it oddly appropriate: the arm he had lost was the arm that had borne the Dark Mark.

The rest of the "old crowd," as Dumbledore still called them, a great deal older and fewer in number. Their losses had been heavy.

Hagrid, towering in the corner, eyes on Dumbledore, looking for all the world like a bull mastiff straining on its leash. The giants were recuperating from their labours in the Forbidden Forest, much to the dismay of every other creature there.

Remus Lupin, greyer and shabbier than ever, but still capable of giving Hermione a weak smile as he waited quietly, betraying his nervousness by tugging at patched sleeves.

Young and old, Auror and Order, there were perhaps forty wizards and witches seated–or standing–down the long table, in varying states of agitation and apathy. Forty of a hundred; many dead, some missing, some fled. Some having finally declared their allegiance to the Dark Lord, and staring now through the eyes of a Death Eater's mask.

The din was deafening, and went on long enough for Hermione to wonder why Dumbledore didn't put a stop to it. But then, she had never in her life seen Dumbledore look quite so worn. His trademark irreverence was gone; he stared at the table like an old man longing for better days. Which, she thought silently, he was.

But when Dumbledore stood, everyone fell silent, sitting slowly back down in their chairs.

"I am sorry," he said heavily, and trailed off, almost as if he had forgotten what he was going to say. "I know you are all afraid. And angry," He added, his eyes finding the flushed faces along the table. "And grieving," He said more quietly, compassion etched in the deep lines of his face as he looked at the expressionless Fleur, and Ginny, sobbing silently on her mother's shoulder. "As we began, so we must continue. The Order must stand together. We must trust one another; with our very lives. We have been divided for too long."

_Hear, hear, _Hermione thought, gazing over at Percy Weasley's shuttered face.

"Divided," he said, raising his voice slightly, "by a thousand casual unkindnesses. By apathy; by fear; by complacency. Complacency has a very heavy price. We have been complacent. I say _we, _for I am as guilty as the rest of you. There was something..."

Dumbledore faltered, the word ending on a quavering note as he looked at Harry.

"I made an old man's mistake," Dumbledore said, a carrying whisper.

Molly Weasley shot to her feet.

"If you're talking about what I think you're talking about, Albus Dumbledore..."

"No." Harry stood up. "No, Mrs. Weasley, he's right. It's my fight. It was always my fight."

"Harry–"

Hermione couldn't stop herself; she, too, was standing, the same Hermione that had tried to dissuade Harry from a hundred risks, and failed, nine times out of ten. Nor was her voice the only one. Lupin's, Ron's, Ginny's, and even Hagrid's. Harry's shout cut through them all.

"This is why I _lived!" _He shouted, effectively silencing everyone. Hermione sat down slowly, closing her eyes. _Not Harry. Merlin, not Harry, too._ "This is..." Harry paused, lowered his voice, and Hermione could see that he was terrified. Few others would know him well enough to see it. "There was a Prophecy," Harry said, and swiftly met Dumbledore's eyes, as if asking permission to continue. Whatever he saw there, Harry straightened, squaring broad shoulders. "Made before I was born. That either Voldemort would kill me, or I would kill him. That's why he killed my Mum and Dad. That's why he came after me while I was in Hogwarts. And _that's _why..." Harry paused again, as if he couldn't believe his own ears. "...I have to go. When we find out where he is, I have to go."

"Not alone," growled Moody, and stood to clap Harry on the shoulder. "You won't go alone this time, Potter."

"No, he won't," said Ron. "I'll go with you, mate."

"So will I." Lupin stood.

"You're not going without us." Fred and George, tight-lipped.

"_Je vais aller_." Fleur, her wand clenched so tightly in her hand that Hermione wondered she didn't snap it in two.

"Wotcher, Harry." The irrepressible Tonks.

"All ri', Harry?" Hagrid.

"I'm going, too." Ginny, scarcely noticing the tears flowing down her cheeks, her small face hard and brittle.

And everyone else, Mrs. Weasley reluctantly, Hermione dazedly, Arthur Weasley with a hand on of Harry's shoulder. And Dumbledore, no longer the wavering, tired old man, stood last, bowing his snowy head to the Boy Who Lived.

The remains of the Order of the Phoenix.

_Author's Notes_

_This is also a short chapter, so two posted tonight as well. Thanks, while I'm thinking of it, to Kazfeist, for checking my French for me in the last chapter. _


	17. Death Warrant

__If there were such a thing as an "organised uproar," Hermione was in the midst of it, and liked it not at all.

It _would_ have to be Snape, of all people, that voiced the obvious, and in a voice that oozed scorn and dislike as deeply as it ever had.

"As touching as all this is, how do you plan to _find_ the Dark Lord, Potter?"

He might just as well have blown up a powder keg, Hermione thought sourly. Her head was aching, her mouth was bone dry, and the Order could very well argue until dawn, at the rate they were going. Part of the trouble was that Mrs. Weasley furiously nixed any plans that put Harry at further risk. More importantly, the sobering truth was that what remained of the Order were too few to manage a head-on assault of the Death Eaters. There were not enough Aurors to guard the Ministry and aid in such an attack. And they might catch a Death Eater and question him, but their losses would dash any hopes of winning a fight with Voldemort himself–slim as even those hopes were.

_Draco, Draco, _she thought, her throat tight with fear.

Draco.

"Draco," she said aloud.

Amazing how rapidly that name silenced everyone.

_"Malfoy?"_ The twins chorused.

"Do you know another Draco?" she asked dryly. "If anyone can find Voldemort, it's Draco." Seeing the outraged expressions on the faces of better than half those present, she continued hastily. "He's been spying for us for two months. We went to Romania on his information. Some of us," she added meaningfully, "are only sitting at this table because he warned us about Voldemort's plans."

Rapidly, unblushingly, she related the rest of the story, supported occasionally by Moody and Kingsley.

"The only thing," she finished, twisting the sleeves of her robes in her fingers, "is that I don't know how to find him. After..." Her lower lip trembled perilously and Hermione drew a deep breath, forcing herself calm. "...he left to go after the Eye himself, and there's no way I can find him. The Mark..."

Kingsley stepped in so smoothly that Hermione herself almost didn't notice the interruption, and she gratefully used the time to get a hold of herself. Now was not the time to go to pieces. _Later, _she promised. Later she would find a room with thick walls and scream until her throat was raw.

The few who had heard of the _Confatalis _Mark were impressed; those who had already heard the story were thoughtful.

"Tha's all well an' good," said Hagrid bluntly, "but how do we plan to get a hold a' him?" There was still deep mistrust in Hagrid's voice, and Hermione couldn't blame him. Draco had been singularly horrible to Hagrid for most of his time at Hogwarts.

"Hedwig," Harry said, reaching under the table to give Hermione's fingers a squeeze. "Hedwig can find anyone. And she'll know," he added, meeting her terrified eyes, "to wait until he's alone to deliver the message."

It was some time before she could find her voice, and it shook when she spoke. "You're sure, Harry?"

He understood the question. "Hedwig won't give him away, Hermione. I promise."

Mechanically, she nodded, taking proffered quill and parchment, tearing a narrow strip off the bottom.

_Draco,_

_Don't try to fight Voldemort yourself. When you know where he is, the Order can join you in force. The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London. Please be careful._

_I love you._

_Hermione_

Whatever Harry said, she felt as if she'd just signed his death warrant.

Gently, he took the parchment from her nerveless fingers, handing it briefly to Dumbledore. The parchment flared in the Professor's hands, and Harry left to send Hedwig off with the message. Hermione scarcely heard the rest follow him, in ones and twos, some giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze in passing, Mrs. Weasley bending with a whispered reassurance and kiss on the cheek.

Five minutes, five hours, five days might have passed when she looked up and saw Dumbledore sitting beside her, hands resting comfortably in his lap, looking as if he would wait until the sun burned out for her to speak.

"Was this the only way?" She asked quietly.

"The only way to defeat Voldemort, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore idly flicked at the buttons on his robe, one, two, three, and stroked his beard. "Perhaps. The only way to save Mr. Malfoy's life?" Noting her start of surprise, he smiled. "I believe so. There is no prophecy that says Draco Malfoy would destroy the Dark Lord."

"He's fighting for me." That truth had been tearing at her. "If I had gotten the Eye, if I had done my _job, _Draco wouldn't have gone. And even with Hedwig..." Struggling, she shoved that thought aside. "He's fighting my battle, and I _hate _it."

"As Harry has always fought our battles." Dumbledore closed his eyes. "At eleven, at twelve, and nearly every year since–a child fighting the most feared wizard we have known for many long years. Does that make it easier to bear, Miss Granger? The innocent suffer, and struggle. And, sometimes, they die."

"What will happen?" Hermione whispered, squeezing her own eyes shut. It wasn't as if they had called Draco back; called him to safety, sent someone else to risk their life. They were sending him from danger into danger.

"Even the wisest cannot see the future," Dumbledore said reprovingly, his voice unwontedly gentle. "I don't know. But Mr. Malfoy chose this course. He chose it for love. He loves you a great deal."

"I love him."

"And there is magic in that." Dumbledore rose. "Old magic is mysterious, Miss Granger. No one can see all ends; no one can say what will be, what could be, what should be. Much as we wish it were otherwise."

There was no comfort there; there was no comfort in any of his words.

She heard him moving, heard the sweep of his robes on the floor; saw, from the corner of her eye, him adjusting the half-moon spectacles that had a tendency to slip down his crooked nose.

"You might remember," He said from the steps, almost sharply, "that there are _times, _Miss Granger, that sacrifices must be made. Sooner, sometimes, is better than later. It might already be too late; I cannot say. But what Draco has given you, I hope you return in full measure."

"Given–?"

Dumbledore chuckled sadly. "Time, Miss Granger. It is like a river...flowing onward, unstoppable, immoveable, but for a Herculean force..." He subsided, glancing back at her with an odd smile. "You were given time with Mr. Malfoy. It is my hope," he said wearily, "that you used it well."

Hermione stared after him blankly as he moved up the stairs, still pondering aloud the vagaries of time.

Fond as she was of Dumbledore, there were times when she agreed with the Draco Malfoy of many years before: he was cracked. Brilliant, but cracked.

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Three nights. Four nights. Five.

The slaughter continued unabated. There was joy in destruction, the pagan's delight in a shower of blood, the fanatic's fierce pleasure in a rallying cause. The unceasing whisper, murmurous and constant as the sea, of the terror of the Dark Lord.

The Dark Mark glowed in the sky nightly. His sigil. His glory.

It was sport beyond any Death Eater's darkest dreams.

How deeply their network had delved, only the Dark Lord himself knew. Families were wrenched asunder by betrayed loyalties, friends locked in deadly combat. The Ministry pushed back, calling desperately for assistance, and the few that answered the call came too late. Through the Imperious Curse, through the slow and quiet swelling of their numbers, through the first and deadly attack at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, many of those that could have fought were already dead.

And he _burned _with it.

From his throne in the basement of his mansion, Voldemort counted the victories and discounted his losses, knowing that only a few strongholds remained to be toppled. His own Scrolls of the Dead, the list of Aurors and members of the Order, lengthened, day by day. He knew who had perished and when; he often knew how, as his Death Eaters recounted their own stories, spun legends of every murder. Lucius Malfoy remained beside Voldemort on the step just below his throne, curled in a fetal position and staring outward, his mouth frozen forever in a scream. A macabre reminder of the price of failure. His Death Eaters would not fail.

Ultimate victory was in his grasp, and Voldemort savoured it like the finest of wines.

Chilling red eyes swept the room and hovered like beacons on the six kneeling Aurors he had commanded to be taken alive.

As excellent as his intelligence had been, as deep and vast his network of spies, there were some things known only to a very select few.

The headquarters of the accursed Order of the Phoenix being foremost among those things.

It was his hope that one of these six would not only possess that knowledge, but would be willing to share. Or unwilling to share. His smile widened, a grimace of teeth and thin lips, a flash of unholy eyes.

Despite their fear of him, a fear that even stretched to saying his name, the six Aurors stared back, unflinching. Young; all of them, and he knew their names, just as he soon would know their secrets.

Zacharias Smith. Anthony Goldstein. Lee Jordan. Alicia Spinnet. Padma and Parvati Patil.

They would break on the unstoppable wheel of his power.

Behind them hovered nearly a dozen Death Eaters, masked and hooded, not trusting the captives, even if they were deprived of their wands. Magical ropes bound their hands, and had they evinced any tendency to speak unpleasantries, Voldemort would have silenced them, as well.

As it stood, his gaze lingered longest on the twins, sensing a weapon.

"The girl," he said softly. "She reeks of fear. She is weak."

Mulciber seized Padma by the hair and yanked her head up, forcing her to stare at Voldemort. Clenching her small jaw, she did, gazed into his burning eyes with a dark fire of her own, that kept its secrets.

"Severus," Voldemort said, and his Death Eaters felt a twinge of uneasiness, like the plucking of a discordant string. "How well you taught your students..."

For which the betrayer would pay dearly, in Voldemort's own, and infinite, time.

Parvati shrieked and struggled as she and the other four Aurors were dragged to the corner of the room, still within sight–and well within earshot–of the fate they would eventually share. They would see how courage was rewarded.

"The Order, girl," Voldemort hissed, not deigning to address her by name. "You know. Occlumency will not stop Lord Voldemort from breaking your body."

She did know, but Padma Patil had grown to adulthood during the grim sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts, and her time in Dumbledore's Army stood her in good stead. She could not tell him where Headquarters was; only Dumbledore could do that. But she could block the sight of it from her mind, hide the image of the house, the street where it stood. To show him these things would mean the death of the Order, of her friends, of the people she had fought beside. The worst Voldemort could do was kill her. It was a terrible knowledge, she thought glumly, that it would not be an easy death.

_"Crucio!"_

Padma screamed, writhing on the floor, too hurt to move, too agonized to lie still.

"The Order...?"

It took time to gather herself, but she did, rising with bared teeth. Meeting the Dark Lord's eyes, she bent deliberately and spat at his feet.

Mulciber cuffed her viciously, her cheek striking the cold stone floor. Voldemort glared at him and he stepped back, glowering at the girl.

Parvati sobbed aloud, and Lee Jordan surged to his feet, roaring.

_"Coward! _Fucking Death Eater ma–"

_"Silencio," _snapped Avery, grabbing Jordan's dreadlocks and shoving him down.

_"Crucio!"_

Now it was Parvati who screamed, as loud and long as her sister had, as Padma gasped for breath, working frantically to keep the wall before her memories intact. Refusing, for now, to meet Voldemort's eyes as he forced her chin up with a long and burningly cold finger. Tottering, she tilted herself back over, and up. On her knees, but better than on the floor. She would not give them the satisfaction of crushing her.

_"Crucio!"_

A moan. Padma swayed.

_"Crucio!"_

It became necessary to silence the rest of the Aurors, except for Parvati. The sounds she made were eminently acceptable. A fine trickle of blood, gleaming in the dim light, made its way from Padma's nostril.

_"Cruc–"_

The Death Eaters turned as one as Voldemort broke off, staring at the steps at the far end of the room. Padma fell, unnoticed.

"We have a guest..." Voldemort said softly, lips curling in a smile more terrifying than a murderous snarl. "Perhaps, my servant," he murmured, glancing at the body of Lucius Malfoy, "Lord Voldemort will do better by your son..."

_Author's Notes_

_Foreshadowing all over the place here, but hopefully it's less obvious than I think it is. I think a few of my reviewers caught what's coming in the original version, so tell me if you think you know what's going to happen. This is the first time I've ever tried to drop hints ahead of time and play with the foreshadowing thing._


	18. Oblisum Animus

A high-pitched screech roused her, and Hermione woke with a terror that answered almost as soon as it questioned.

The little dragon on her back rolled, flailing his tiny wings, clawing as he writhed.

Hermione sat up in her bed and screamed.

Answering screams. Pounding feet.

Unseeing, unthinking, as lights went on and the door to her bedroom swung open, Hermione tore the shirt off her back and raced across the room to the mirror on the nightstand, turning to watch the dragon writhing in agony. She was wearing a bra beneath the shirt, but could not possibly have cared even if she were stark naked, and had every male wizard in the world between the ages of eleven and sixty as an audience.

_It didn't hurt._

Not in any technically physical sense, but Hermione dropped to her knees and felt as if her heart would burst from her chest.

The dragon screeched again, ear-splittingly high-pitched, spouting flames that drew a surprised, _"Bollocks!"_

She could care less if he set the room on fire. The dragon was a part of Draco, and the dragon was screaming in pain.

She was screaming herself. Covering her own ears to shut out the sound. Hermione only dimly heard the whispered conversations at the doorway, and viciously struck at Ginny as the girl tried to comfort her.

_"What's happening?"_

_"Did they find–?"_

_"Death Eaters?!"_

_"...the Mark. Get Dumbledore."_

_"...everyone else...sleep, if they can..."_

A hand lashed across Hermione's face, once, twice, and Harry caught her arms as she pitched forward, too terrified to cry.

"Is it Draco?"

Looking up with eyes filled with horror, she nodded speechlessly as the dragon on her back went into a fresh round of writhing, almost catching Tonks's robes on fire.

"Hed...Hedwig h-hasn't come back y-yet?" Hermione asked through chattering teeth, and Harry's lips closed in a firm line as he shook his head.

Ron, too, crouched on the floor beside her, grasping her hands.

"It's D-Draco," she told him, and felt her hands start to shake. "Th-they..."

She couldn't say it. If she said it, then it meant Draco would die. Hermione threw back her head and screamed again as the dragon lashed.

Abrupt silence as Professor Dumbledore entered, moving at a speed at odds with his age, fairly crackling with power.

"Out," he said flatly, his eyes flashing at the mob in the room, gesturing for Ron and Harry to stay. "Hermione–"

Hermione fell between them, shivering uncontrollably as they held her. Thoughtfully, Ron brushed a thick lock of hair out of her face and laid his hand on her icy forehead.

"They've got _Draco!"_ With that admission, it was suddenly very hard to breathe.

"Lie still," Dumbledore said softly. "Harry, Mr. Weasley, if you could please help Miss Granger off the floor?"

As lightly as if she had simply slipped and fallen. Taking her elbows, they helped her up, though her knees trembled beneath her.

"On the bed, Miss Granger."

Obediently, she sat there, her face in her hands. The little dragon lay still, gasping.

Dumbledore gently touched the dragon, and the little one rolled over, staring up at him with wide garnet eyes.

"Hold her," he said, and covered the dragon with the palm of his hand, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly.

Heat burst into her back, eating into her spine, travelling like lightning up to the back of her skull. Grimly, Ron and Harry moved her so that she lay flat on the bed, Dumbledore's hand still on her, as if he had found a heretofore unknown switch on her body that caused a momentous amount of pain.

There was a part of her, somewhere, still capable of realizing that whatever this was, it was meant to help, but Hermione could not help shrieking as Harry and Ron silently kept her pinned. A small voice in the back of her head was gibbering, Draco Draco _Draco DRACO..._

Then the little voice shut up, and all that was left was pain.

Pain and trauma dilate time, slow it, speed it, stretch it, and an endless line of black spots marched through her vision before the pain finally stopped. Ron and Harry hesitantly released her, as though expecting her to lunge for their throats.

Hermione had no interest in going for anyone's throat. Yet. For now, her entire being was focused on relearning how to breathe.

More bits of conversation drifted back to her from the area of the door, bits that made no sense, in funereal voices.

_"Perhaps...so ancient...few understand..."_

_"...help..."_

_"...alive?"_

_"Fades...will know...with her."_

The door shut gently, and the long-suppressed tears finally fell, drop by drop.

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The five year-old Draco that resided permanently in the back of his head had taken one look at what was left of Lucius Malfoy and fled screaming into the darkness.

The older Draco had seen Padma Patil on the floor and gritted his teeth, the screams of her sister dimly registering.

Between then and now, there had been a great deal of screaming. The Eye shimmered on Voldemort's robe, the source of his power, and when that power was channelled into the _cruciatus _curse, it was a fearsome thing indeed.

There was something he had to do...

Draco shook his head, noting that the surface to one side of it was very cold. And hard. Most uncomfortable.

Found that he had hands, arms attaching them to his body, and thought it marvellous.

He remembered, a very long time ago, Professor Flitwick lecturing them their first day at Hogwarts.

_To practice magic requires two things: education, and control._

And Mad-Eye Moody, sixth year, after what must have been a mighty struggle against Professor Dumbledore.

_Practically speaking, it would be easy to simply Apparate away from a fight. But it takes concentration, and usually there is none to spare, if you're fighting for your life. And if you've been hit with a curse–not necessarily the _cruciatus _curse–then part of you is already fighting the curse. There's only so much energy to use._

He breathed, the first breath, it seemed, in a long, long time.

Where the strength to fight the curse had come from, he didn't know. Had no time to wonder. There was something...

Some...one.

Dimly, he heard the word again, the word that meant pain. Wild laughter that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, laughter that was cold and somehow utterly empty of humour. Part of him flinched, at the word, at the laughter, bracing for the onslaught.

His hand moved, if he focused on it. Fingers curled at his command. He forced that hand under himself, forced his arm to push, forced himself up, reeling, to one knee.

The laughter ceased, and

_Hermione._

Draco stood, and faced a Dark Lord whose teeth were bared with rage, and a circle of Death Eaters who had drawn back, fear and uncertainty glinting in eyes half-hidden by the masks they wore.

_Hermione screaming_

Cowardly things to wear, masks. He told them so.

_Potter and Weasley holding her down_

He felt...strange.

Behind him, he saw Lee Jordan working quickly and silently to untie the others, and didn't bother to wonder how Jordan had got himself free.

For the first time in a very long time, the Dark Lord himself was uncertain, and his hesitance trickled through the room, a scent caught on the breeze.

Reaching into his pocket, Draco found change jingling–the last of his Muggle money. It struck him as ironic, somehow, though he could never say why. Clenching it in his hand, he thought _portus_ with all his might, focusing on the Ministry. Even without a wand, there were some magics a determined wizard could manage. Of course, it helped if the wizard in question was terrified. Draco was secure enough in his masculinity to admitthat.

Even with the Eye, the Dark Lord's _cruciatus _curse had failed. Even with the Eye.

There was a moment, a heartbeat of hesitation, and Draco took it.

Whirling, he threw most of the handful of coins to Lee Jordan, and bent, shoving the rest into Padma's unmoving hand. Had halfway straightened, and brought the image of the glade where he had first taken Hermione into his mind–

_"Oblisum–"_

Voldemort made a slashing motion with his wand, his face gone deadly white and terrible, a line of purple flame snaking out–

_"–animus!"_

With a _crack, _Draco Apparated.

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To the forest.

To the Aurors' library in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, a wreckage strewn with countless pages.

To the goddamned hotel where he and Hermione had first made love, startling the life out of the bint at the front desk.

And still, they were one step behind him.

Hunting.

Enraged.

He couldn't breathe.

Reeling, to the snowy path just outside the windows of Nott's mansion. Touched the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth and wondered why he felt like he was drowning.

Back to the forest.

Whatever wild strength had seized him in the Death Eaters' lair was deserting him, and the trees of the glade were spinning. Something struck his shoulder and he swung at it blindly, an indignant _hoot _reaching his ears.

Paper fell into his hands, and he forced reluctant eyes to focus on it.

_The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._..

_I love you. Hermione._

"Love you," he said thickly, and Apparated for the last time.

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Pandemonium erupted.

The door to Hermione's room was flung open, and Hermione started, bleary-eyed, to see Ginny standing in the doorway, her mouth open in shock.

"He's–it's–"

The twins were shouting downstairs.

Her heart in her throat, Hermione leaped from the bed and sprinted toward the balcony, watching Fred and George haul Draco through the doorway, Fred kicking the door shut behind them and bending with his brother to lay the taller man down on the floor.

She would not have been the least bit surprised if she had been informed later that she had jumped from landing to floor, rather than taking the stairs.

_"Get Harry,"_ Draco managed, gagging. Bloody froth rose to his lips.

Hermione dropped next to him and grasped his hand, wiping away the blood at his lips with the tail of her shirt. _Merlin, so much blood. Why is he bleeding?_

Draco pushed her hands away and tried to sit up, snagging Harry by the collar and almost holding himself up by it.

_"Little Hangleton," _he gasped, and fell back, turning on his side as he coughed, his face going as grey as his eyes. Spitting blood, he gasped for breath, and couldn't find it. Saw Harry still hovering, and thought exasperatedly, _he cannot _possibly _be this thick._ "God_dammit, _go!"

Further chaos. Moody and Kingsley shouting orders. Mrs. Weasley pausing to embrace Hermione so tightly that it took her breath away. Members of the Order running, swearing, fetching their wands and Apparating in a series of _cracks _that shook the house. Harry hesitated, grabbing Hermione's arm.

"Hermione?"

"Go," she said, a lump rising in her throat. "Now, before they have a chance to reorganize."

It felt as if a whirlwind had passed through, for the house was suddenly still and silent again, empty.

"Draco?"

He smiled at her, lifting bloodstained fingers to touch her face.

"'Mione," he whispered. "Saved them."

"I told you to be careful," she whispered back. "Didn't you read the note?"

His lips curved, and despite the blood, despite his pallor, his face was beatific. "Bloody owl...almost took my head off...giving it to me. Love you," he repeated, his breath rattling in his throat.

"I love you," she said, dashing tears away from her eyes. "Draco, stay with me."

"Was it...enough...?" He asked, so softly that she had to bend to catch the question. In his grey eyes was the boy that might have been, if things were only a little different.

"Yes." Tears streamed down her cheeks as she grasped his other hand.

He pressed her hand to his lips, a courtly gesture that drove into her like a blade.

"Love..."

"Draco?"

"My...love..."

_"Draco!"_

With a small sigh, a final sulphurous breath, the little dragon on her back faded away.

_--_

_--_

_--_

_Author's Notes:_

_This is not the end of the story. That's all I will say, except that if you know/think you know what happens, don't spoil it for anyone, please. And review, review, review. (Hopefully I made you cry; I did my damnedest. And I am woman enough to confess that I cried the first time I wrote this. I hate killing off characters.)_


	19. The Lever that Moves the World

Darkness had fallen in a slow curtain through the windows of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, a thumping silence broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. As if from a great distance, it chimed the hour, and the chimes took on the tolling resonance of bells in a Muggle church tower.

_Five...six...seven..._

Hermione Granger realized she had counted the chimes out of habit, or possibly to mark off the long ticking moments of the rest of her life.

Draco's hands would have been cooling by now, had she relinquished her death grip on them.

There might have been a time for tears. Might have been time for screaming, for rage at a world that could so coldly dispose of Draco Malfoy. But there was nothing in her left; no will to rage, no strength to cry, no courage to carry on down the long avenue of years. For now, and for the foreseeable future, Draco had taken those things with him.

Hermione Granger, of course, was not thinking of these things in any such coherent terms.

That little voice in the back of her mind, however, was tickling fairly persistently.

Odd, how the mind ranges, when the present it too horrible to contemplate. She remembered a story her mother told her, when Hermione was a child–the story of a woman who watched her love sail away, never to return. How she waited, day and night, on the cliffs where she had last seen his ship, facing ever west in the hope that one day the white sails would sweep the horizon, and the tides would carry him home. Years passed, until one of the men of her village came searching for her, and found a statue in her place, arms extended toward the sunset, and tears still on its stony cheek.

The child Hermione had thought that foolish, and said so.

Draco Malfoy's lover brushed the silken hair back from his temple and knew that she would wait every moment for the rest of her life for him to appear, weary and worn, but always with a kiss for his Hermione.

The grandfather clock ticked unceasingly, and the small voice in the back of her mind gathered enough strength to shout.

There was injustice in this.

Sirius Black, she had accepted. Professor McGonagall. Neville Longbottom. Bill Weasley. Seamus Finnegan, and the other five Aurors who had perished in the battle for the ill-omened Eye. Of these deaths, she bore her portion of the blame with humility, with new knowledge of her own failings. That, too, Draco had given to her. Hermione Granger was human. And humans do fall, and fail.

But this...no. _No. _This, she could not accept.

_"It might already be too late; I cannot say. But what Draco has given you, I hope you return in full measure."_

_"Given–?"_

_"Time, Miss Granger. It is like a river...flowing onward, unstoppable, immoveable, but for a Herculean force...You were given time with Mr. Malfoy. It is my hope...that you used it well."_

Hermione closed her eyes, remembering, long ago, another day when she had stood on the brink of loss, another time when it had already been too late.

_"What we need...is more _time."

Whether the words were spoken or merely remembered, she didn't know, but she felt a presence at her back, the whisper-slither of robes as Albus Dumbledore settled on the steps behind her.

"Love is the lever that moves the world, Hermione," he whispered. "No great sacrifice, no great victory was ever won...no great loss was ever mourned, no great hope borne with more courage. Love is the key to move the immoveable, to turn the world the other way."

_Unstoppable, immoveable, but for a Herculean force._

If there had ever been any doubt that Dumbledore read minds, it was vanquished now as he laughed softly.

"You are one of the most literal young women I know," he said fondly. "But even myths can be wrong, for when Hercules turned the river, he turned it for love, even if he himself did not know it."

_Time._

"There is a legend," Dumbledore repeated softly, "of a man so strong that he turned a river back on itself, forced it to flow backwards. The Nile runs against its course to this day."

_Where is your strength, Hermione Granger?_

__Unbidden tears welled, fell, as she looked at the hands clasped in hers. _There. He was my strength._

_Then by Merlin, girl, _take it!

Time.

"The Time Turner," she said aloud. "Professor McGonagall's Time Turner."

Hermione turned back to the stairs, finding them empty, save for a small hourglass on a long, fine chain of gold.

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There were few laws so stringent in the Wizarding world as those regarding altering time.

She didn't care.

She would be go back to the time when the Death Eaters were at their worst, running straight into their arms, if she were lucky. If she were unlucky, she'd run straight into a Killing curse.

So be it.

She might survive only to die when Draco did.

_Better than the alternative._

When this was over, Hermione was going to sleep, whatever happened. Having run the gamut of emotions in the past twenty-four hours, she was uncertain how much more she could stand; how much longer she could endure. The grim core of her responded with a voice that was very like Draco's: uncompromising, blunt, and occasionally cold with it. _As long as I have to._

Where a younger Hermione had, at times, fallen apart when greatly stressed, the elder bore down with a will tempered by years of uncertainty and harsh experience. Life was a taxing headmistress, and the final grades were never known until the end.

She left Draco with alacrity, not daring to linger any longer. Made her calculations, based on her mechanical, half-headed counting of the grandfather clock's chimings. So far as she knew, no one in over a century had dared to go more than a few hours back in time. She was going back over two days.

The Aurors' library had been destroyed.

As helpful as that little voice had been earlier, Hermione wished it would shut up now. She knew the dangers, knew the risks, and she was going. End of discussion.

She held the Time Turner in hands that trembled, remembering long-ago instruction with Professor McGonagall.

_"Over, vertically, Miss Granger. One turn per hour."_

_"What happens if I turn it horizontally, Professor?"_

_The older woman's lips twitched. "I should say you would go further back than you intend. And," she added, a touch of asperity in her voice, "I would remind you that I did not write letters to the Ministry so that you could experiment."_

A day? Hermione knew little of the few Wizard devices that worked with time, but this was the least of them. There had, to her knowledge, never been any such device that went back much further than a week.

And the worst that could happen to her already had, she thought, steeling herself. Two turns horizontally, several vertically...

As often as she had done this her third year in Hogwarts, Hermione had never become accustomed to it. The sensation of rushing very fast, backwards, the blur of colour and shape around her, only this stretched on so long that she was afraid she had vastly underestimated McGonagall's Time Turner.

The world lurched to a stop with a suddenness that nearly knocked her over, and Hermione staggered. Gazed around the darkened entryway of Headquarters and thought for one wild second that she had not left at all.

But no–there was Moody, padding toward the steps, a glass of milk in his hand and his grey hair sticking up wildly in all directions.

"Can't sleep?" He grunted. "Don't blame you." Without waiting for reply, he heaved himself up the steps, his wooden leg clunking dully.

Vaguely, she remembered waking up–three?–nights ago, to that very sound, the clunk-step of Moody's gait on the hardwood floors.

There was time, then.

Hermione Apparated.

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The battle in the Aurors' Library had occurred that afternoon, and the fires were still smoldering, books still burning, as Hermione arrived that night. Coughing, she cast a Bubble-Head charm and slipped down the aisles warily. _Distinguishing Marks, Distinguished Wizards_, by Thelonius Bagby. Had the library not been a wreckage, books scattered everywhere, she would have known where exactly where it was.

There was something deeply personal about the destruction of this library. It had, for all intents and purposes, been Hermione's second home. It was the seat of knowledge, not just for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but for the Ministry as a whole. Many of the books were irreplaceable.

Clambering across overturned shelves, Hermione found the approximate place where the bookshelf had been and started neatly stacking the books behind her as she sifted through them. There were, no doubt, other books that detailed the requirements of the Mark, but she did not have time to look for them. By dawn, she must complete the potion.

Three years ago, there had been no time for Hermione or Harry to ponder deeply the possibilities of time travel. How many little things could be altered–_so easily!–_and how unpredictable the changes could be.

At Headquarters, she had been desperate and grief stricken, and willing to seize with both hands any chance to save Draco.

Now, Hermione closed her eyes briefly and forced a slow breath, and another, to slow her galloping heart. If she could avoid being seen, if she could avoid the madness spilling into every wizard household and village... because changing _anything_ could be very, very bad.

She would save him. But it would be a great deal more difficult than she had thought it would be.

By the whimsy of whatever Deity ordered events on earth, the book she searched for was predictably the last one she picked up, and the cover had scorched black, some of the pages burned. Only by rubbing off the ash with her robes could she faintly make out the gilt lettering on the spine, and then she clutched the precious book to her.

Up one floor and down the hall a bit was the storeroom for Potions ingredients, but it was not easy to Apparate within the Ministry. Hermione wracked her memory. Had there been another battle in the Ministry tonight? The last five days were a blur of crisis after crisis, skipping from place to place, always too late, always too few.

Tears prickled, _again, _behind her eyelids, and she blinked them back, pinching herself painfully. No, now was not the time. Later, if she lived, she would fall apart completely; have a nervous breakdown if that's what she needed. And if she didn't live, then it wouldn't be an issue, would it?

_Breathe._

Hermione edged out into the hallway outside the library and wished desperately for Harry's invisibility cloak.

Slipping through the shadows, she fumbled for the button for the lift in the darkness, holding her breath as it jangled and clattered on its way down to her.

_"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services," _said a cool female voice, and Hermione ground her teeth as she entered the lift. Aesthetics were all very nice, but not when they might as well have painted a glowing sign over her head: _here! Another Auror!_

_"Level Three, Department of..._"

Hermione slid out of the lift and into the doorway to her left, holding her breath as she strained to listen–there, again, a second thud. Dimly, she heard shouting.

_Damn._

__The storeroom was at the end of the corridor, and the fighting was coming near. Round the corner ahead, she saw flashes of violet and sickly green light.

It was one o'clock in the morning, and she did not have time for this.

Edging down the hallway, she held her wand out ahead of her, more from habit than intent to use it. Whether she killed a Death Eater or stunned one, it could change things.

Three shadows abruptly flew around the corner. Or rather, two shadows ran, dragging a third along as a woman's voice shrieked curses, jets of light flying from her wand.

They collided with Hermione and went down in a tangle of limbs and robes, the green lights of Killing Curses crackling where their heads had been. The woman surged to her feet and raced back to the Death Eaters, blond hair flashing in the dimly lit corridor. _Hannah?_

"Hermione?"

Dean Thomas yanked her to her feet and tugged her along, and Hermione wrenched back, realizing what she had just done.

_Saved the life of Ginny's husband._

What would change because of it?

"No, you go ahead," she said, gathering herself. "Something I _have _to do, Dean. I'll send Hannah after you. Be careful."

Accustomed to that level of information–or less–Dean nodded curtly. "Be careful yourself," he said, and ran on, his shadow merging with those at the end of the hallway.

_"–killed Neville, and you'll pay for it..."_ Hannah's voice rang down the hallway, boiling with such rage, Hermione winced. The witch turned the corner and was illumined with the sickly green light of three, perhaps four Killing Curses. There was a moment when her profile was stark, shocked, and then she crumpled to the ground.

And round the same corner came the Death Eaters.

Damn, damn, _damn._

_"Lumos!"_ Light exploded from her wand, blinding to eyes accustomed to the darkness, and blinking furiously, Hermione bowled her way through them, clouting one in the head with the heavy book in passing. One snatched at her robes, managing to grab her trailing hair instead, and Hermione whirled, feeling a clump of her hair separate painfully from her scalp. _"Impedimenta!"_

The Death Eater flew backward, neatly intercepting another Killing Curse, and Hermione turned and ran, hoping callously that the Death Eaters would continue after Dean and the other Aurors rather than chasing her. Blocking, deliberately, the crumpled image of Hannah from her mind. Three would be dead, instead of one, if Hermione hadn't been there to trip them. And one more Death Eater would be alive.

Wildly, she remembered the words of a Muggle cartoon character in a show she'd been fond of watching on holiday. _"Oh, I wish, I wish I hadn't killed that fish._" She never thought she would see the day that she would be very, very sorry to have inadvertently killed a Death Eater.

_--_

_--_

_--_

_Author's Note:_

_Okay, given the reactions to my killing Draco off in the last chapter, hopefully the Time-turner thing doesn't seem too contrived. This was a question I asked in the original version, and what I tried to plant a hint about ahead of time. Let me know if I was successful, or if it was totally out of the blue._

_Points to whoever names the quote from the muggle cartoon character. :)_


	20. Past Present

Difficult to Apparate within the Ministry, but not impossible.

Hermione skipped, hallway to hallway, floor to floor, appearing and vanishing in silent rooms and burning rooms, rooms filled with shouting Aurors and cursing Death Eaters, a technique that was very good for evasion, and not much use otherwise. Few Aurors practised it for that reason; "skipping," as Moody had dubbed it, required total concentration when used to move to unseen locations, and left no energy whatsoever for spellwork.

That was fine; Hermione had no intention of using her wand again for quite some time, given what had happened the last time she used it. It was only by flatly refusing to think of what might have changed–who else might die, who else might live–that she forged onward at all.

Finally deeming it safe, she Apparated exhaustedly into the potions ingredients storeroom, daring a dim light and flipping through the book to the ingredients list. The list, oddly enough, was short, but she wanted to be certain, nonetheless, that she took the proper items and more than double what was called for. There would be no more mistakes.

Spare cauldrons were piled along the floor in the back, and Hermione dragged a bag over to it–there were a stack of them in a corner specifically for that purpose–packing the ingredients tightly into a medium sized cauldron. Honey. Gall, which smelled atrocious, even in the bottle. Moonstone. Jobberknoll feathers, which she handled carefully, minding the poisonous tip of the shaft. Ashwinder eggs and hellebore.

Knowing what she knew of these ingredients, the results would be interesting. Catching another whiff of the gall, she wrinkled her nose and slipped it into the bottom of the cauldron. The results would also be pungent.

Bending, Hermione laced the bag closed and hefted it, wondering where on earth she could go and remain undisturbed for two days.

Few places in the Wizarding world, she thought grudgingly. Having a relationship of any kind to Harry Potter–friend, foe, or pet–had always drawn an almost rabid amount of scrutiny. The Hermione Granger of this time was working frantically for the Order, and there were few places she _hadn't _gone, at least once, during those desperate hours. Hermione exhaled sharply, feeling as if she were screwing up her whole brain in thought.

_The hotel._

No one knew of that place but she and Draco, and the Draco of this time was hunting for Voldemort.

The Draco of this time would not know that she, the Hermione-from-the-Future, was there, because she no longer bore his _Confatalis _Mark. He would not be able to see through her eyes. He would not know...

Ruthlessly, she quashed that line of thought as unproductive. She was not going to try to change everything that had happened. She had come for one purpose, and she now had the means and a safe location.

Draco had not died from _the_ Killing Curse. _A _curse that killed him, which she hoped feverishly was not at all the same thing.

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Her eyes were burned holes in her head, and Hermione forced them open, stirring the potion cautiously, her mind already far ahead. Planning, some of the time; worrying, a little, and desperately trying to _not _think, for the most part.

If the potion was not stirred constantly, it would solidify, and her arm ached with it, though she had finally adjusted to the sulfurous fumes that danced merrily across its surface. Her eyes weren't even watering that much anymore; or at least, when they did, it wasn't because of the potion.

Hermione, after nine and a half hours in the silent hotel room, had vowed, if she survived, to destroy all the ticking timepieces she encountered for the rest of her life. The clock on the wall was driving her mad, and yet it drew her as she counted down the hours to when she had first awakened, the little dragon on her back shrieking. Counting down until the time when Draco was captured, the moment she knew that Hedwig's warning, if it had come at all, had come too late.

Meditating, as the book instructed, was easy; Draco was foremost in her mind no matter what she did. Preventing herself from running into the night to save him...that was the challenge.

Knowing what would happen if she did–what could happen–what she knew _had _happened...

She was risking his life even now; gambling that the Mark would be strong enough to save him. She didn't know for certain that it would. If she was wrong, then he would die again, and she would die with him.

So be it.

Hermione dug her fingernails into her hand, squeezing her eyes shut, stirring all the while. In another quarter hour, she would rub more of the potion onto her ears, over her eyelids, and over her heart. It burned. And she reeked of it. Her robes reeked of it. This _room _reeked of it.

Twelve more hours. Ten. She had never seen a clock move so slowly, and wondered if it was broken. A quick check of her pocket-watch confirmed that yes, time had indeed slowed down to a crawl, and a minute was an impossibly long time.

Six more hours. Hermione yawned, sticking her head over the cauldron to wake herself up.

Thinking of Draco was agonizing. She flashed to his face when he first kissed her, the tight lines of anger around his eyes; the vision of him stretched over her as they made love, eyes flashing silver, the cords in his neck standing out. The chagrin on his face when Mrs. Bourne's dog attacked him. The impossible beauty of him, the touch of his hands, the strength of his arms. And the mixture of sadness and resignation in his face when he kissed her goodbye, letting her go alone to face the Death Eaters in Romania; as if he had already charted the course of the future in his mind and moved ahead into it nonetheless.

The wistfulness in his eyes as he asked, _"was it enough?"_

Her eyes were watering again, and she rubbed them with her sleeve, sniffling.

Two more hours.

The Hermione-of-the-Present was sitting in her bedroom, staring at the wall, all but buried under the terrible knowledge of what was happening. Reaching behind her, occasionally, to touch the dragon on her back; checking the mirror to be certain he was still there. Alone. Silent. Lost.

Within her, she felt a _click, _as if a key had been trying for hours to turn some internal tumblers, and finally succeeded. It was time; and she was stiff as she rose, dousing the flames and using an _evanesco_ to get rid of the remains of the potion.

_Merlin, Morgana, Alberic and Circe, let this work._

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The sky to the west was brilliant as the sun set, a sweeping canopy of crimson, and bronze, a few violet clouds floating along as if they were coasting on a golden sea, underlit by the last rays of light.

Hermione crouched just down the street from Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, peeking out to watch for Draco, biting her lower lip to keep from crying out to him when he appeared, staggering, on the sidewalk in front of the house. Pushed the gate open and reeled up the path to the front steps; falling against the door as he pounded on it.

Hermione had not had time to give much thought to how she would deal with the Hermione-of-the-Present. It was her _own _past that she was altering, and only vaguely did she remember the few–_so few!_–minutes she would have to save him. There was no question of trying to force her way into Headquarters the moment the twins carried Draco in; a houseful of edgy Aurors would make dust of her before she managed a breath.

No one had ever so thoroughly altered their own past, and she planned as she waited, how best to convince the grief-stricken Hermione-of-the-Present to stand aside; whether she would have time to give Draco the mark before he died; whether the act of giving the Mark might lengthen his life, to give her the time she needed. Whether she would be able to finish the Mark as she took his pain. That thought made her bite her lip harder. Given all the other possible ways she could fail, she would not fail because of that.

The twins, to their everlasting credit, only stared at Draco for a moment, and caught him as he fell, looping his arms over their shoulders and dragging him into the house. The door slammed shut behind them.

Her heart in her throat, Hermione crept closer, realizing very belatedly that with Draco's mark gone, she could enter the house by herself; and in the meantime, she could hear what went on through the door.

The twins shouting–herself, sprinting down the steps.

_"...Hangleton!"_

She caught back a sob. Merlin, let this work, _please let this work._

_"...dammit, go!"_

The uproar that ensued; shouting, running, the cracks of Apparation.

_"Hermione?"_

She dug her fingernails into her hands. Get _out _there, Harry!

Herself, and yet a voice so terror-stricken that it was scarcely recognizable. _"...chance to reorganize."_

_Now._

With a calmness that she in no way felt, Hermione opened the door and stepped inside.

The Hermione-of-the-Present stared at her, mouth open in shock.

Carefully, Hermione bent and placed her wand on the floor, straightening slowly with her hands out, to prove that she was no threat.

"I'm you," she said, quietly but firmly. "You're going to go into the past with Professor McGonagall's Time Turner. You will come back and save him. There isn't much time." Her voice quavered. "We have to try."

"The Mark?" the Hermione-of-the-Present guessed, and Hermione nodded. For a moment, her vision wavered, and she suddenly remembered a vision of herself, grim faced, shadow-eyed and white, striding through the door. The words she had just spoken, being spoken to her. It felt for an instant as if her head had split in two. _The lever that moves the world_, she thought, unable to remember who spoke those words.

It didn't matter.

She knelt, picking up her wand and leaning over Draco, who was too far gone to make sense of it, recognizing only Hermione bending over him, not noticing as the Hermione-of-the-Present retreated to the steps, deathly pale.

"Draco," she whispered, and rolled him over onto his belly, an unresisting but heavy weight. He turned his head, grey eyes dull as he looked up at her, realizing what she was going to do.

"'Mione, no," he said hoarsely, and she smiled through her tears, bending to press a kiss on his lips. Draco tried to draw back, too weak to struggle away.

_"Adseropictum Confatalis,"_ she said, pressing her wand between his shoulder blades and lying down beside him, gritting her teeth against the rush of pain. Her mouth filled with the coppery-sweet taste of blood.

Oh, but it _hurt!_

Perspiration broke on her forehead, and her wand shook in her hands, the humming she remembered –it might have been from a different age–breaking the deathly silence of the room. She could feel his pain as if she were in his body, feel the fractured and tortured inner workings that were killing him. Feebly, Draco managed to rise halfway, and she stopped him, pressing her free hand to his chest as her wand hummed on.

"The Binding of Fates," she said, dashing away tears. "You chose to share mine, remember?"

Draco shook his head in mute denial, but nonetheless drew her against him, neither helping nor hindering.

Her heart sped to double time, then triple.

And still she held on.

She felt Draco's breath hitch, an iron band welding around her lungs.

And still she held on.

His arm fell around her waist, the weight of him almost dragging her down as he collapsed, halfway on top of her, and her hand shook where she held the wand. From a great distance, she felt something flutter near it, heard a faint, importunate screech.

Crushing pain traced her heart, gripped it, held it.

The floor rushed up to meet her very suddenly.

_From the steps, Hermione watched the strange version of herself fall, wand clattering to floor, a loud sound in the absolute silence of the house._

_Her hands had been at her mouth, and she lowered them, slowly, to her sides. Found something there. Lifted._

_A tiny hourglass, a fine long chain of gold._

_Without Hermione halfway holding the unconscious length of his body up, Draco slipped downward, his arm around the strange Hermione's waist, her face hidden in his chest. Neither moved again._

_...five...six...seven..._

_The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour, murmuring into silence._

_She stood, clutching the hourglass in her hands._

_Whether they lived or died, she would go._

_Twice horizontally, several times vertically, she rotated the hourglass._

_And vanished._


	21. Little Hangleton

The terms _pitched _and _battle _had always conveyed an odd informality to Harry, as if a _pitched battle _was any less deadly serious than a real one. In his experience, there was little difference between the two: people screamed, people fought, people fell bloodied and dying in places that always ended up looking like the eight or ninth circle of hell. Death in a field of daisies in the sunshine was still death.

Of course, he thought, ducking a curse an instant after he Apparated, this place was not exactly a field of daisies, and what little sun remained was sinking into a bloody pool on the western horizon. No, despite chintz armchairs and a preponderance of doilies, this already qualified as some circle of hell.

Darkness fell swift and sudden through narrow corridors, and were it not for the masks and hoods Death Eaters insisted on wearing, it would be difficult to tell friend from foe.

Of course, tonight, that wasn't his job. His job was to find Voldemort and end it...whatever _ending it _would mean.

It had been the work of the last twenty-three years of his life, whether he knew it or not, the task for which he'd trained, sweated, bled, and eventually, killed. He'd done it before. He could do it again.

The thought didn't stop a slight tremor in his lightly perspiring hands, and Harry wiped them swiftly on his robes, holding tight to his wand as he almost belly-crawled to the door. Jets of light were flying fast and furiously over his head, and while he didn't _think _anyone had seen him yet...__

__A smoking crater near his elbow instantly disproved that theory and Harry cursed as he rolled behind a couch.

_"Stupefy!" _He shouted, the red jet spinning off in the darkness, refracting off another curse and plowing into a different masked figure. All the same, he thought with a mental shrug, taking cool aim and firing again. There were, perhaps, more impressive curses to be used, but he was an Auror and Aurors were taught to take their foes alive, if possible. Though from the tumult resounding through the house, _alive _might not be an option for long.

He was grinding the memory of the losses to both the Order and the Ministry into the very back of his mind, but it sprung up repeatedly, like mushrooms after the rain. His friends, his schoolmates, Bill Weasley..._Draco Malfoy, _he added, with a start. Time had not dimmed the shock of affixing _that _name to his personal list.

He flashed back on Hermione's ghostly pale face as she told him to go, and gritted his teeth, edging toward the door, eye on the door to his back. He was fairly certain this room was clear, but Merlin only knew how many rooms this rotting sore of a house had.

Dimly, through the thick oak door, he heard shouting.

Kicking it open, he roared _"Lumos!"_ as he entered, hitting the floor instantly as his flare bounced blindingly along the ceiling with a deafening _bang. _Whatever Aurors were in the room would be used to the tactic, and should recover more quickly. Blinking rapidly to adjust his own eyes to the light, he rolled again to avoid the green light of some unnamed curse. _"Displodo!" _he yelled, voice oddly loud in the silence between object and impact. The far side of the room exploded, flinging Death Eaters willy-nilly, bits of one unfortunate falling in a grisly rain. Tightening his mouth, Harry clapped a slightly green Susan Bones on the shoulder in passing, edging around a vast dining table to the swinging door at the far end of the room. Keeping his eyes, rather desperately, away from the scorched and faintly smoking remains opposite.

The door burst open before he reached it, a maskless and hoodless body soaring through in an almost graceful arc, bouncing along the floor as the light of the _lumos _flare dimmed. Susan moved toward him or her instantly, and Harry didn't bother, didn't want to know just now. Later. Much later. Merlin willing.

Another room, and another, the Death Eaters adapting swiftly to the _lumos _flare. Ruthlessly, he changed it, firing a screamingly bright _displodo _into their midst, sending it shrieking against a wall...using all the tricks he'd been taught, honed and adjusted through harsh exigency, finally stumbling on a long hallway and nearly getting a _stupefy _from Ron for his trouble.

"Sorry, mate. Bit down there, I think–"

Ron swore viciously and whirled as silver bolt whistled past his ears, reducing the chair he'd been sheltering behind to smouldering ashes.

_"Avada Kedavra!" _he shouted, sending the Killing Curse into the darkness of the corridor behind him, following it up with a flurry of other curses as he moved to the wall, crouching there as a shriek echoed down the passage. "Go on, then, Harry..._stupefy!"_

Sending a few curses over his own shoulders, Harry got on, instinctively hitting the floor as something galloped heavily behind him, almost taking his head off his shoulders. The armchair bounced down the hallway and whirled, doilies flapping, charging back for round two.

_"Reducto!"_ Harry shouted, thoroughly discomfited, and the curse–messily–struck a Death Eater that loomed out of the darkness. Ducking, Harry grimly finished the man, which was likely a mercy, given the condition of his face. The chair glanced his shoulder, clawed feet raking at him in passing. _"Reducto!"_ he yelled again, reducing the enchanted object to matchsticks and hurrying down the hall, wand out and up. Wondering, briefly, how much of the furniture was going to attack him as he passed it.

A small figure bowled him over in the darkness, and he caught the flash of bright hair as a brilliant jet of light shot of them both.

_"Tonks–Moody–pinned down," _Ginny gasped. _"Ron?"_

"Busy," Harry replied grimly, following her down the corridor and dropping the Death Eater who'd fired at her from fifty paces.

The hallway widened into a room at the end, and Harry yanked Ginny back from the corner, cursing her inexperience. She was swift–and creative–with hexes, but she was also just out of Auror training.

Daring a peek around the corner himself, Harry saw the dark motion of some half-dozen Death Eaters as Tonks and Moody fought them off, Moody turning almost gracefully on his wooden leg, wand flashing too rapidly to see.

_"Lumos!" _Ginny shouted, beating him to the punch, and Tonks, Harry, and Moody dropped as the flare imploded in the room, nearly setting the ceiling on fire. Screwing up his eyes, Harry fired, breathed, fired again, dragging Ginny behind him. Tonks dispatched another Death Eater, and caught Moody as he fell, struck with Stunning Curses from two sides. His magic eye spun out its socket and rolled. A Death Eater stepped on it and slipped, falling to the floor with a resounding crash.

Stifling an almost hysterical laugh, Harry stunned her, leaving Ginny to deal with Tonks and Moody. _Moody would be pleased, _he thought, snickering, and lunged back as brightly robed figure shot out of the darkness as though fired from a cannon, catching both Ginny and Tonks and smashing them to the floor as a fresh volley of Killing Curses erupted from the opposite side of the room.

Dean Thomas sat partway up and grinned at Harry, motioning him on as he briefly smacked a kiss on Ginny's cheek and fired back at the Death Eaters.

Much as it galled him to leave them, Harry knew he'd never find Voldemort if he stopped to fight every Death Eater in this madhouse. Moving down yet another darkened hallway, he eyed the table there warily and shouted for Voldemort.

The affect was abrupt and hardly surprising; Death Eaters appeared as if by Summoning Charm, and Harry swore, Apparating three feet back and to his right, a modified version of the "skipping" Moody had taught them–one that required only half his concentration, as he was moving to places he could see from the corners of his eyes. Again, and again, back and forth, firing Curses as he Apparated, whimsically setting the hall table on them and catching glimpses of it as it barrelled toward them, drawers open and snapping viciously.

_"Impedimenta!"_ shouted a hoarse voice, and he was too slow to Apparate, blasting backward, breath knocked out of him, he summoned his scattered wits to wink out before he hit the floor, reappearing a few feet back from his previous position. Winded, but standing.

The table was reduced to splinters, but it had done its work; two Death Eaters were out cold on the floor, shadowy forms very still, and the third advanced with an arrogant stride that Harry instantly recognized.

Hatred that he had seldom before known flashed up in him, hot and suffocating, and his smile was more a baring of teeth as he bowed sardonically to Bellatrix Lestrange, foremost servant of the Dark Lord and _murderer of Sirius Black._

Time had done absolutely nothing to dim his abject and passionate hatred of the woman.

Endlessly pleased with herself, she slipped the hood off her head and the mask off her face–a face that, though aging, still retained vestiges of beauty, though it was shuttered and cloaked with absolute and irredeemable madness.

He would kill her, he thought coldly, lifting his wand. Oh, this was one he would kill.

"The wittle baby's all growed up," she sing-songed. _"Crucio!"_

_"Protego!" _Harry sidestepped nonetheless. It was not the first time he had dueled Bellatrix since Sirius's death, but by Merlin, it would be the last. _"Confractum!"_

Bellatrix dodged hastily, the wall beside her buckling to the ceiling, long cracks radiating like the spokes of a spider's web.

_"Oblisum animus!"_ She shouted, slashing with her wand, a jet of purple flame pulsing out with a sickly light–the same curse he had seen once before, Harry recalled, at the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. Even though Dolohov had been under the Silencing Charm, it had nearly killed Hermione.

_"Contego!_" He yelled, consigning the ill-looking flame to oblivion.

"The crushing of the heart, Potter!" He heard her shout in the darkness. "Is your blood-traitor friend dead yet?"

_Malfoy._

He wouldn't think of it, there wasn't time–"_Displodo!"_

_"Contego!" _She shouted back, leaping to avoid the wooden shards that burst like shrapnel from the floor.

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

The jet moved through the darkness, a rushing silence that narrowly missed Bellatrix and stopped her laughter, which was better than nothing, he supposed. _"Confractum!" _He bellowed, aiming in the direction the laughter had been coming from, hearing Bellatrix screech as the silvery bolt hit the wall again, throwing her forward into a mirror. It shattered, glass falling in long shards on top of the woman._ "Petrificus Totalus!" _he added, pressing his advantage, and to his delight, she seized up in the midst of the glass, stiff and unmoving.

"Muggles say breaking a mirror is seven year's bad luck," he informed her, advancing with the dim thought of the Killing Curse swirling in his head. "Don't think you have seven years, _Bellatrix."_

_If you can kill this coldly, Harry..._came a weary voice, cutting through the curse on his lips.

God_dammit._

Not while she was helpless. As much as he wanted her dead, he couldn't do it when she was powerless to stop him. Not like this.

And no fucking _time _to debate where to send her, how to bind her, how to be certain that she wouldn't appear at his back later, twice as deadly for the surprise...how much _easier _it would be to just kill her now. _Efficient, _his mind supplied, and he suppressed another vicious oath and bound her, sending her by Portkey back to the vague area where Tonks, Ginny, and Dean had been. That would have to suffice. Let some Ministry executioner kill her, if the Ministry survived this war.

Moving off into the deepening darkness, Harry shouted again for Voldemort.


	22. Terminus

A series of explosions rocked the house, staggering Harry as he went down a gradually widening corridor and sending him into a door that swung abruptly and obligingly open. The room he halfway entered was still searingly hot, blackened and scorched, the glass windows a melted ruin. Whatever had happened here, it would have killed whoever was in the room almost instantly. The doorknob scorched his elbow in passing and Harry jerked back, rubbing where the hairs had been singed.

It was a massive effort, this _not thinking; _to force his mind to not dwell on who might be dead already; what he was about to do; who he was about to face. He could feel the air growing colder as he moved down the hallway, almost as if it were the slimy trail of the Dark Lord, a miasma that followed him wherever he walked. Drawing a breath that was only a little shaky, Harry closed the door behind him with a flick of his wand.

Silent rooms surrounded him, in tense anticipation, as if they too awaited the final duel, holding their breath.

The lightning-bolt scar on Harry's forehead prickled abruptly. Mechanically, he rubbed it, noticing the chilled sweat beading across his brow. Whatever the front of his mind might try to tell the back of his mind, he was terrified.

He didn't shout anymore; the air was too thick; it was like forcing his way through a line of spider's webs to move down the hallway. The metaphor was unfortunate. Harry was reminded of Aragog, of the Basilisk, of just about every other unpleasant creature he'd ever encountered, crouched in dank holes and shrouded in shadows. And he searched for Voldemort, the most...unpleasant...of all creatures, in his own cold, dank little burrow. Harry's mouth twitched at the thought. At least his luck was consistent.

The hall turned, widening further, to a vast corridor that was heavily furnished, dark paintings on the walls, stained with age, torches extinguished down the length of it.

There, at the end, a glimmer of light, dancing on the mildewed expanse of a stone step.

His scar twinged again, making his eyes water.

_Right foot, left foot, right, left..._

It took an age to traverse that dark corridor, Harry's feet carrying him to the last place on earth he wanted to go. _Terminus, _he thought, recalling the spell and the place a grim-faced Professor Welleford had described in seventh year Defence Against the Dark Arts. The end of all things.

There was a body on the stairs, a shining curtain of platinum blond hair, the delicate frozen face of Fleur Delacour. Fleur Weasley. _She was with Bill now,_ he thought, and what a cold and useless fucking platitude that was. She was dead, and Voldemort was directly or indirectly responsible for every death in this war. For the taking of a life, for the loss of the cool beauty of Fleur, the level-headed good humour of her husband. The startling courage of Draco Malfoy. His eyes prickled, and Harry forced himself not to recognize Fleur. Not to think of those who fought and died in the rooms behind him. _Later. Later._

Down the steps, into the wide emptiness of a stone-paved room, wooden rafters trembling overhead with the weight of many feet. This room was as wide and long as the whole of the house, stretching in flickering torchlight before him, ending on the far side with a dais and throne.

As if he had all the time in the world, Lord Voldemort rose to his feet, dark robes swirling around his cadaverous frame, crimson eyes flashing as he smiled. On his robes, the Eye glinted and glowed, a pulsing light that mimicked the rhythm of a heartbeat.

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"Harry Potter..."

Voldemort breathed the name, descending the steps of the dais slowly, bloated with the power of the Eye and arrogant with it. Long pale hands drew the wand from his pocket, raised it with a flourish.

"This day has been too long in coming..."__

_"Avada Kedavra!" _Harry yelled, deciding to get the worst of it over with. Death Eaters loved to talk, loved to draw it out, and his patience had worn thin many, many duels ago.

Almost lazily, Voldemort dodged, laughing. _Laughing._ The shrill screech of it made his hair stand on end.

_"Crucio!"_

_"Protego! Displodo!"_

_"Contego!" _The shards of stone floor bounced harmlessly off the Dark Lord, and he smiled, lashing out with his wand as if cracking a whip. The smoky form of a snake burst forth from the tip, airborne, fangs bared, straight at Harry.

_"Evanesco!" _Harry shouted, the smoke-snake vanishing, though goosebumps marched up and down his arms as he and Voldemort faced off. There was nothing like an airborne snake to get the heartrate up, smoky or not. _"Praepetis ardeo!"_

The bird burst from his wand in a roar of flame, swooping down on Voldemort with fiery claws extended.

_"Stinguo!" _Voldemort shouted, dodging in a blur of dark robes, the firebird vanishing in a theatrical puff of smoke. _"Adsultare!" _He added, pointing not at Harry, but at the stone walls, which wrenched themselves apart and whistled toward the boy.

_"Contego! Displodo! Protego!" _Harry shouted, skipping rapidly, blocking, blowing up the stones, and protecting himself from the explosion. _"Impedimenta!"_

Sometimes the elementary curses worked best; Voldemort blasted back into the wall, vanishing an instant before impact, obviously having mastered the art of "skipping" himself. Screwing up the back half of his brain, Harry vanished as well, making several wild circuits of the room before Voldemort reappeared.

_"Avada Kedavra!" _He shouted again, and Voldemort spun and ducked, lashing out with his wand again, a snake that was emphatically not made of smoke winding around Harry's waist and raising its head to strike.

_"Flagrate!" _A line of fire scythed through the snake, which fell writhing to the floor, and Harry crushed its head under the heel of his boot. _"Accio Eye!"_

The Eye made to leap off Voldemort's chest, and only a quick _protego! _saved it. Snarling, the Dark Lord's head snapped up, fixing Harry with the full weight of those inhuman eyes and wordlessly informing him that playtime was over.

_"Avada–"_

_"Petrificus Totalus!" _Harry spat out, Apparating before he could see whether it struck its mark. It did not, but it successfully stopped Voldemort completing the Killing Curse, which would be an unholy thing, backed by the power of the Eye. He skipped again, and again, raining curses on the Dark Lord, focusing entirely on diverting him from the Killing Curse. Vague strategy formed in his head, and a low voice breathed, _get the Eye..._

_"Accio Eye!" _He shouted again, cursed and skipped as the Dark Lord shielded it. _"Confractum! Contusum!"_ The bolts exploded almost simultaneously from his wand, the first silver, the second gold, forcing the Dark Lord to skip again. The Crushing Charm tracked him, pinwheeling around the room and finally exploding into the wall beside the Dark Lord, grinding the rocks to powder.

The faintest line of blood ran from Voldemort's temple, and Harry smiled.

"First blood, _Voldemort."_

_"Avada–"_

_"Locomotum throne!" _Harry roared, skipping to the back of the dungeon, not really expecting the throne to damage Voldemort, but appreciating the irony nonetheless.

Voldemort rose from underneath the shards of his throne, eyes glowing with their own crimson light in the darkness, trumping the fluctuating brilliance of the Eye._ "Serpentsortia!"_ he shrieked, and not one snake but a dozen soared from his wand, streaking toward Harry with unnatural speed.

_"Repello!" _The Banishing Charm scattered them, but with a hiss, the snakes surged back toward him. Dimly, he heard Voldemort's _avad–_

Harry skipped again, Disapparating just long enough to shout, _"Impedimenta!"_ Appearing on the dais, slightly dizzy from all his skipping, turning back to the snakes. _"Incendio!"_ And to Voldemort, _"Incarcerus! Expelliarmus!"_

Thick magical ropes lunged toward Voldemort, and his wand flipped out of his hands. _"Accio Eye!"_ Harry yelled, and Voldemort's eyes widened slightly as he struggled to keep it, splitting the ropes with a _diffindo _and snatching up his wand.

_"Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!"_

The red jets of light blasted around the Dark Lord, forcing him to Disapparate again. Panting, Harry followed him, dodging around the room in a blur of skipping and curses, stones flying at his head from all directions.

_"Impedimenta!"_

Too late, too slow, too damn bad.

Harry was blasted off his feet, reeling from the force of the curse. Rapidly, he tried to collect his scattered wits, but the floor was faster; he bounced along it, rolling to a stop at the base of the dais, gasping for breath and shaking his head.

_The Eye..._the voice in his head repeatedly urgently, and he snapped at it to shut up, what did it think he was trying to do...

Voldemort loomed above him, wand at the ready, and Harry groped thickly for his own wand, vaguely remembering it falling from his fingers when he struck the floor.

_"Acc–accio wand," _he wheezed, and skipped dizzily again out from under the Dark Lord, knowing it was the worst possible thing he could do...aside from remaining where he had been.

Apparating, he fell, his legs flatly refusing to support him any longer, his vision blacking out in the edges. In his head was Moody's voice. _Well, Potter, now what are you going to do?_

A piercing note, a flame beside him, and something clanked heavily onto the stone floor at his feet.

The sword of Godric Gryffindor.

Weaving to his feet, Harry stooped and hefted the blade, focusing with renewed determination on the Dark Lord, who watched with narrowed eyes. Lifted his wand–surely he couldn't be moving _that_ slowly–and Harry had all the time in the world to move, sword in his left hand, wand in his right, sensing a certain poetry as Voldemort drew a shield from thin air, emblazoned with a serpent.

Around the room again, an endless dance of light and destruction, the sword clanging off Voldemort's shield, sparks flying as both Harry and the Dark Lord deflected curses, Harry moving with a speed and grace he had never felt before. The sword was an extension of his arm as he turned, whirling, finding balance between the weapon and the Muggle fighting Kingsley Shacklebolt had pressed on his Aurors.

Voldemort falling back, Voldemort with the _Eye _falling back, Harry ruthlessly pressing his advantage, driving him back to the dais, giving him no time to recover, no time to skip, no time to breathe.

_"Intritum! Impedimenta!" _The stone steps crumbled beneath Voldemort's feet; the second curse blasted him backwards, and breathless, Harry stretched out his hand. _"Accio Eye!"_

The Eye wrenched free of the Dark Lord, soaring at Harry, and he felt a surge of power unlike anything he'd ever known, the Eye pulsing in his clenched hand, speeding to match the rapid tempo of his heartbeat as he leveled his wand.

There would be no capture, no Ministry execution for Lord Voldemort. He died _here._

Their voices sounded together, as one, wands focused on each other with a scant few feet of distance.__

_"AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

The force of the curse that left his wand sent Harry staggering back, Voldemort's curse, a puny thing in comparison, was absorbed in the _wall _of green light that smashed through the room, a whistling darkness that devoured all things, dropping the Dark Lord like a puppet with severed strings.

But it was not dead; not dead, screaming, a shrivelled blackened _thing _that crawled in the shadows; screams rising to an agonizing pitch as it writhed, and Harry's hands went to his ears to block out the sound, feeling the walls tremble with the force of it. _That sound _alone was going to kill him, his scar was searing, no one could feel this much pain and live...groping mentally, Harry dropped the sword and pointed his wand again, forcing the word from long ago to his tongue.__

_"TERMINUS!"_

The spell that had not been used in living memory, the name of a place where nothing could grow, a barren stretch of rock that was the westernmost point of the world...Professor Welleford's voice lectured in his deafened ears as the spell _whooshed _forward, striking that crawling thing in the corner with a spectacular collision of shadow and absolute darkness.

Fire flared and Voldemort screamed, a pillar of flame roaring up, he was burning, the ceiling was burning...

Harry staggered back without realizing it, and someone tackled him, beating the flames out of his robes, shouting incomprehensibly...

Another voice, a tug on his sleeve, and he dimly recognized Ron's long-nosed, freckle-faced visage (_spattergroit, _Harry thought with an entirely inappropriate and mostly hysterical laugh) and Charlie helped haul him up the slick stony steps, almost tumbling back down as the room exploded below, the ceiling falling in. Paused to snatch up Fleur's body, and Ron took her from Harry, reverently brushing her hair back from her cold face.

...Upstairs, the ruin of tortured halls and melted glass, scarred floors and shadowy corners fractured, the walls crumbling, as if Voldemort's will alone had held them together...

...the _cracks _of Apparation as Death Eater and Order alike vanished, taking their wounded with them, leaving their dead...

Ron again, his mouth shaping slow words...

_"Once more, Harry..."_

They vanished.

--

--

--__

_Author's Notes:_

_Spells first. Hopefully you could tell what they did from context, but just in case:_

Praepetis ardeo_–firebird._

Stinguo_–extinguish_

Adsultare_–to leap upon, assault._

Contusum_–to break, demolish_

Confractum_–to crush. (This was described, but not named, in the Battle in the Department of Mysteries_.)

Intritum_–to crumble, wear away._

Terminus_–the end._

_Hopefully _"terminus,"_ didn't come too far out of left field, but it was such a cool spell I couldn't resist. It basically demolishes everything in its path. It doesn't just kill it, it obliterates it. I figured something more than an "avada kedavra" was necessary to kill Voldemort. And on that thought, did this battle seem too easy for Harry? It was something I was concerned about in the original version, too. All the build-up to Voldemort, it could have taken several chapters to kill him thoroughly. Unfortunately, I haven't the patience for that._

_And to skip back a couple chapters, I've had a few comments on the time paradoxes from the Time-Turner, so I'll explain a bit. When Hermione returned and faced herself, she changed her own memories. She didn't remember Dumbledore giving her the Time-turner, because in the altered version of time, he hadn't. But since Hermione-of-the-Present went back in time, she completed the loop. It was a paradox, but a completed paradox._

_This is also the last time I ever fiddle with time travel in my stories, because it confused the hell out me, never mind my readers. I tried to be as linear with it as I could, and tried to make it clear what the two Hermiones were doing._

_Oh, and one more thing--one of my reviewers made an excellent point about _Priori Incantatum _going into effect when Voldemort and Harry's wands were forced to duel. Not knowing what JK Rowling is planning to do with this obstacle, just assume Harry's original wand was destroyed sometime in the six years prior to this story, and he got a new one._

_Lastly, thanks again to the University of Notre Dame translation site and the Harry Potter Lexicon for the spells, to my reviewers for reviewing, and JK Rowling for creating such a detailed and complex world. It's a lot of fun to play with._


	23. Abs Favilla

_Dark._

_Warm and still and utterly silent, she drifted, feeling above her the twisted and ruined workings of tortured lungs and the crushed pulp of her heart, the taste of blood thick in her mouth, dark flecks of it on her dry lips. There was pain, and she ducked below it, hiding..._

_There was also a dim sort of almost-knowledge, something terribly important that kept her from hiding completely in the darkness, a constant prickling that drove her up into the light and into the pain. It broke over her in a red wash, a _wave _that was as insistent and unstoppable as the tide. Thinking was impossible when the wave crested, and she would have moaned if she could have, would have twisted if her body obeyed. Would have reached for it, whatever it was that she wanted so desperately, if her hands would move._

_It was in one of these moments of almost-consciousness that she saw light, heard voices that she recognized._

"Ah...Merlin, Hermione, no..."

_Her hands twitched, and a crimson bolt shot through her, sending her below the tide. Somewhere above, they pried her away, and the motion brought a weak mewl of protest from her lips as it jarred her. _

__Her eyes opened, focusing dizzily on a thatch of red and blue eyes, eyes that brimmed with tears.

"Ron," she said weakly, and his tears overflowed.

That wasn't right; her hand trembled as she reached for him, trying to tell him that he shouldn't be crying.

Then she gasped again as Harry rolled her grimly onto her back, feeling her lungs bubble with the breath, the sense of drowning thick in her mind.

"They're alive..." someone behind Harry said, voice weak with relief.

"Draco?" she whispered, fighting off the darkness long enough to see Harry nod. From somewhere near her, there was a weak screech, a sound entirely unlike any the little dragon on her back had ever made.

As gently as he knew how, Harry lifted her, arms under her knees and shoulders, but it was not gentle enough. Something shifted, and pain exploded through her, pain unlike anything she'd ever felt before, even when Dumbledore had poured his power into the little dragon...dragon...

_Draco..._

Darkness was abrupt, and this time, absolute.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Order had taken heavy losses in their final battle, and nowhere was it more obvious than under the mercilessly bright lights of the waiting room in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Of the forty that had gone to fight, perhaps twenty-five had returned relatively unscathed; of those injured, only four had managed to get back. It was likely that they would never know what had become of the others. Susan Bones was one that was missing; Anthony Goldstein another. Harry couldn't bear to think of the list of names.

The loss of Remus Lupin burned in Harry like a brand; the last of his father's old friends, the last of the Marauders. Whether he died a hero or not, dead was dead, and Harry swiped at his red eyes irritably.

Malfoy and Hermione–even with the shock of Draco's appearance, even with Hermione's word, along with Moody's and Kingsley's, it was hard to believe that a Malfoy had turned the tide. Neither Draco or Hermione had regained consciousness, and Healers hovered in their room anxiously, speaking in low tones that grated on Harry's nerves unendurably.

Slightly down the hall, Professor Dumbledore paced, brow furrowed deeply in thought, the lines in his face so deep as to have been chiseled there.

As ever, it was to Dumbledore he wished to speak; it was a ritual after his battles, that Dumbledore would clarify everything, somehow make the losses easier to bear, make Harry understand.

As if he heard Harry's thoughts, Dumbledore's snowy head came up, and he shook his head as Harry moved to approach.

"Not now, Harry," he said softly.

The snack cart cantered up the hallway again, flinging plastic forks every which way, and Harry watched it moodily as the Healers reemerged from Hermione and Draco's room, shaking their heads at the watchful members of the Order.

The wait was interminable. Days passed, waking and sleeping, Molly Weasley shooing them off to eat and shower periodically as they hoped against hope that Hermione and Malfoy would survive–the second part of that hope something Harry occasionally stumbled over mentally. There had been so many days in Hogwarts that he looked into Malfoy's cold grey eyes and anticipated seeing them through the mask of a Death Eater.

Moody, Morag MacDougal, Emmeline Vance, and George Weasley were the only surviving wounded, and Fred sat alone in the waiting room, having thrown off his mother's hands and growling whenever someone attempted to speak to him. Nursing a tomato-shaped nose and a spectacular black eye, the helplessness in Fred's face was the worst of it; Harry looked away, unable to bear the sight of him. What would become of Fred if George died...

Spying Colin Creevey wending his way down the hallway, another half-dozen reporters and photographers in tow, Harry snarled wordlessly and took out his wand. This was the third time in as many days that he had had to deal with the press, and by Merlin, he didn't care if he got clapped in irons and sent to Azkaban, he was going to...

Ginny Weasley interceded, long enough for Healers to hear the commotion and order the _Daily Prophet _staff from the building. With them went his burst of angry energy, and he sat with his head in his hands, forcing a wan smile as Mrs. Weasley pressed a cup into his hands. The fact that it was tea and that it was lukewarm at best never registered as he sipped at it absently.

There was a great deal of whispering about the Marks; the tiny dragon on Hermione's back, the unnamed Mark on Draco's, the Binding of Fates, what that would mean, and it had the Healers flummoxed. By rights, Draco should be dead, they murmured, and how Hermione had given him her Mark...

It was a question for another time, because Harry didn't give a good goddamn what it meant, so long as they lived. The weight of the deaths throughout the war was something that pressed him until it was difficult to breathe. _No more _was a continuous murmur in the back of his head.

Resolutely, he turned his mind away from that, muted the clamour that made it difficult to breathe when he thought about George, Hermione, and even Malfoy. Mechanically, he ate whatever it was Ron shoved at him, his weariness a lead weight.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunlight streamed through the windows and Hermione Granger woke to a drugged haze, vaguely cognizant of the swirl of bottle-green robes, the excited murmur around her as she was poked and prodded, weakly protesting. A cup was forced to her lips and she drank, almost spitting the bitter liquid out. By the taste alone, she remembered having this particular potion before, a long time ago...

"Draco?" she asked softly, almost inaudibly.

"He's alive, dear," a young witch said cheerfully. "He'll wake up soon."

She almost managed to kick the wizard behind her without Hermione noticing, the man's mouth snapping shut.

"Where is he?"

The witch drew the curtain beside Hermione's bed back, and she could see the form of a tall man from the chest down, the quiet rasps of his breathing ringing through the still room.

"Gave us quite a turn, you did," said the witch, handing Hermione a cup of potion that bubbled ominously. "We haven't had to treat anyone with the _Confatalis _Mark in four centuries."

"The Mark?" Hermione half-reached to her back, feeling the little dragon stir there, which somehow was wrong. She thought...

Whatever she thought, it trailed off into curious blankness, and the witch shooed the rest of the Healers from the room.

"There are quite a lot of people that want to see you, Miss Granger, if you think you're up to it."

Hermione nodded, falling back against the pillows. Tired as she was, she did want to know the outcome of the battle...Voldemort must be dead, she realized with a start. _Lord Voldemort was dead._

Her weary mind couldn't quite wrap around that thought, but tears trickled down her cheeks nonetheless. So many dead, so many lost, and she woke up to find it was over, after a war that had spanned decades, from the Dark Lord's first rise to now.

Over her sniffling, she heard the Healer in the doorway, arms stretched to prevent entrance.

"She needs quiet," the young witch said firmly. "You will not excite her or stress her, or I'll kick out the lot of you. Is that understood?"

Murmurs of assent, and they deluged her, red-eyed Harry and Ron, grasping her hands wordlessly as she smiled through her tears.

"Voldemort?" She managed, needing to hear the words all the same.

"Dead," Harry replied, sinking into a chair beside her.

"Thought we'd lost you, Hermione," Ron added in a watery sort of voice. "How d'you feel?"

"Wonderful," she replied, with a touch of her old asperity and smiling nonetheless. "How do _you _feel, Ron?"

He grinned, and she squeezed his hand. Mrs. Weasley enveloped her in a careful hug, Tonks winked, and it was so wonderful to see them all...

Too, she noted the gaps between them, the faces she might have expected to see and did not, and closed her eyes. There weren't many tears left in her, only a weary acceptance.

"How long have I been here?" she asked.

"Five days, Miss Layabout," Ginny said briskly and hugged her as well, stepping back and squeezing her husband's hand. "You scared the life out of us, Hermione."

"Do my best," she replied, dwelling still on the quietly sleeping shape on the other side of the curtain. With a sigh, she wrenched her mind back to those gathered around her. "Tell me everything."

Molly Weasley began, in a rapid, high-pitched voice as she glanced at the grim-faced Fred, who slammed out of the room when she spoke of his twin.

"George..." she faltered, and Arthur pulled her face into his shoulder.

Then Tonks, then Daedelus Diggle, his normally excitable voice flat as he spoke of his dead comrades, and Harry tonelessly describing most of his fight with Voldemort, Charlie and Ron hauling him out of the collapsing, burning house in Little Hangleton, taking Fleur with them...

It was too much, too fast, and Hermione closed her eyes, wishing it all away for now.

Harry and Ron kissed her cheek wordlessly as they left, Mr. Weasley steering his quietly sobbing wife from the room, and Hermione felt eyes on her yet in the silence, opening her own to see Dumbledore sitting patiently as ever beside her, hands crossed neatly over the walking stick he was using more and more of late.

"We won," she said weakly.

"In a manner of speaking, Miss Granger," he replied soberly. "We never would have managed it without your Mr. Malfoy."

"Will he be all right?"

"He bears your Mark." Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled for the first time in a long time. "As you grow stronger, Miss Granger, so will he."

"My Mark?"

She felt it in him, felt a piece of herself labouring to breathe as he laboured, felt occasional stabs of pain that were not her own. Vaguely, she even remembered scrubbing tears away as she gave it to him.

"How–?"

"You may not remember," Dumbledore said gently. "He bears your Mark, Hermione, and his life is bound to yours, even as yours is bound to his."

"It takes two days to prepare for the _Confatalis _Mark," she whispered. "How is it possible? I didn't have time..."

"Didn't have time, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore smiled oddly and stood, a slow motion of creaking joints, and patted his beard into place. "Can you stand? There is something you should see."

"Try..." she said through gritted teeth, sitting up and waiting for the room to cease revolving. Dumbledore helped her solicitously, offering her his walking stick with such a grave face that she laughed breathlessly, wincing. "Please, Professor, don't make me laugh," she said weakly, hitching herself across the scant few feet between her bed and Draco's.

"There..."

With a flick of his wand, Dumbledore turned Draco onto his side, exposing a back as broad and pearlescent as she remembered.

There, between Draco's shoulder blades, a tiny red and gold bird stared at her with fierce bright eyes, squawking and burying his head beneath his wing. A bird not entirely unlike the one on the small of her back, or the one that adorned Harry and Ron's shoulders, or Ginny Weasley's ankle. A little phoenix that was more _alive_ than any she had ever seen, aside from Fawkes himself.

Hermione suddenly felt she would very much like to sit down, and did, staring wordlessly at Dumbledore as he smiled.

"Love is the lever that moves the world, Miss Granger," he said quietly, and left her sitting in her hospital robes beside Draco, his words echoing oddly in the still room. She had heard them before, but didn't remember where, wouldn't remember, she added, puzzling out in her mind.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

_Didn't have time, Miss Granger?_

__But she had, hadn't she?

Wide dark eyes returned to Draco, still comfortably on his side, the little phoenix winking coyly at her from under his wing. Pillowed beneath the bird she could read the words, elegantly scripted in handwriting that looked very like her own. _Abs favilla_.

From the ashes.

--

--

--

_Author's Note:_

_I'll try to save the lengthiest notes/questions for the upcoming epilogue._

_I figured this was a good place, however, to address the perfectly reasonable question one of my reviewers asked me in regards to Hermione's mark. What with the paradoxes in time-travel, I could have gone either way; left it to be redone or given it back to her. The way I saw it, once Hermione saved Draco, once she changed time so that he didn't die, then she would never have lost his Mark. As soon as Hermione-of-the-Present went back in time, she completed the loop. If Draco had died despite Hermione giving him the mark, then the point would have been moot. But since he lived, so did the little dragon._

_Hopefully that didn't confuse you worse. Time travel. Bleeech._


	24. Epilogue

Epilogue

The promise of spring was in the air, a warmth in the breeze that had been absent for too long. Golden sunshine, the slow trickling drip of melting snow, as the pines shook off their coats and lifted their branches.

Maybe she was waxing poetic, but Hermione Granger had never known such a glorious day.

Across from her on the stage, Draco bowed his proud head to accept the Order of Merlin, First Class from Minister Bowles–the first such honour, he'd told her cynically, that a Malfoy had earned rather than bought in at least six generations.

She stood in long line of awards recipients; members of the Order; of course, Aurors; various distinguished personages from within the Ministry; but in truth, this ceremony had little to do with awards and everything to do with celebration. They had survived, the Dark Lord had perished, and the fear was over. They could mourn their losses and _live._

Shaking hands solemnly with the Minister, Draco paused politely and turned to the ever-present _Daily Prophet _reporters, handling them with a great deal more poise than Hermione had ever mustered. He was the last to get his award; Hermione's own medal lay heavily about her neck, but she scarcely felt the weight as she reached for his hand, drawing him to her side. His hand in hers was all she craved.

A discreet pinch almost made her squeal aloud, and she grinned foolishly at Draco, whose face was a politely interested mask, betrayed only by the twinkle in his eyes. Well, hand-holding for now, she amended, almost dizzy with happiness.

"...war such as we have never fought, danger such as we have never faced," Bowles continued, gesturing down the lines beside him. "But for their courage, death would have been the kindest fate. Let us never forget their sacrifices, and the sacrifices of those who gave all..."

Percy Weasley handed the minister a long scroll, and Bowles adjusted his spectacles.

"Constance MacDougal. Terry Boot. Minerva McGonagall. Stewart Ackerley. Alastor Moody. Susan Bones. Amelia Bones. Ernie MacMillan. Elphias Doge. Seamus Finnegan. William and Fleur Weasley..." Mrs. Weasley muffled a sob, eyes haunted, and Fred and George gripped her arms, George from the wheelchair he had grudgingly consented to. Or rather, been forced into, by the vehement Healers of St. Mungo's.

"Sirius Black," Bowles continued, nodding his head to Harry, who nodded back, face blank. "Remus Lupin. Rubeus Hagrid. Padma Patil. Anthony Goldstein. Wayne Hopkins. Elizabeth Callahan-Hopkins. Jonathan Hopkins. Owen Cauldwell. Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbot..."

The list was long, the list of Voldemort's victims, the list of those who had died fighting him.

There was not a dry eye in the courtyard when he finished, somberly handing the scroll back to a red-eyed Percy.

"We must," the Minister added in a clear, penetrating voice, "never forget the lessons of this terrible war. The cost of _complacency,_" he said sharply, referring, no doubt, to his predecessor. "The lessons of fear, and the price of blind hatred."

On Hermione's other side, Harry reached for her hand and squeezed as well, eying Draco. Whatever passed between them, it had the air of a truce, and Hermione crunched both their hands in hers, tears in her own eyes. That truce meant more to her than any medal.

"...so let us grieve," the Minister concluded. "Let us bury our dead and mourn them. Let us remember, and let us honour their sacrifices. And above all, let us _live._ A great evil has gone from us. We are better for it, and wiser for our lessons. Thank you. _Order, Aurors!"_

The few Aurors snapped to, and the Order turned more slowly, watching in amazement as the crowd roared, laughed, cried, stomped their feet and clapped their hands, a clamour that set nearly a hundred post owls winging off to the skies. Dragging the astonished witches and wizards off the stage, the mob emptied out into the streets, and Hedwig soared from Harry's arm, spiralling up, and up, and up...

ooOoo

Draco's silvery cloak swirled around them as they walked through the gardens adjacent the courtyard, and Hermione couldn't help watching him from the corner of her eye, the sunlight glinting in his hair, a slight smile playing about his lips as he paused at the thawing lake. His face was as proud and bright as it had been that long-ago night when he had abducted her from the library.

Draco turned, holding his arm out to her, drawing her under and wrapping the shining folds of his cloak around her. Every inch the Malfoy, she thought fondly, reaching to brush his hair back from his collar. His lands and possessions had been reinstated, and she wondered if his arrogance would return as well.

The pride in his face when he looked down at her swiftly dispelled that notion, because it was pride in _her._

"Winter's almost over," he said softly, echoing her thoughts, as was his uncanny habit.

"Yes." The internal debate raged on, her smile widening. _Tell him now or tell him later?_ "Your nose is red," she said, standing on tiptoe to cover it with her mittened hand. "How terribly common, Mister Malfoy. You aristocratic types should be impervious to the elements."

"So's yours," he replied, his large hand covering her whole face.

"Prat," she said, muffled.

"Shrew."

"Ferret." Now, definitely now.

"Love you," he said, bending for a kiss, and she moved her hand from his nose to his lips.

"A question first, if you please," she said. "When, Mister Malfoy, do you plan to make an honest woman of me?"

His eyes widened and he goggled at her momentarily, looking more foolish than she had ever seen a Malfoy look.

"Now," he breathed. "Today. This minute."

"Well, then," she said, permitting him to kiss her, a smile still quirking at her lips. "I'm sure your daughter will be pleased to know her father was an honourable man."

Draco froze, his lips a quarter of an inch from hers, grey eyes locked on her dark ones.

"My daughter?" He whispered, and she was astonished to feel him shake beside her. "My _daughter?"_

"St. Mungo's owled me with the report this morning," she replied, slightly more hesitantly. "I wasn't sure–I thought may–"

Draco whooped and swung her around in the snow, put her down and kissed her, picked her up and spun her again, Hermione laughing helplessly when he set her down for the third time and looked at her with a eyes so shining, she felt his beauty like a physical blow. More tenderly, he kissed her, his hands on her cheeks when he drew back.

"I hope," he said, beaming at her, "that she has hair just like yours."

ooOoo

_FINITE INCANTATUM_

_Author's Final Note:_

_Okay, as I said in the original, I know the whole pregnancy thing is trite, but I had been planning that last line for days. So if you're gagging, my apologies._

_Final thanks to JK Rowling for creating these characters and this world. I did my best to be true to both. Thanks a million times to the Harry Potter Lexicon–if you haven't checked it out, you should–and to the University of Notre Dame Latin translation page. Thanks to Kazfeist for help with the French, and to some unnamed site for the Romanian._

_This story was written prior to the release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, so most of it will likely be thrown entirely out of the realm of possibility when that book comes out._

_I just wanted to stop and thank all of you that reviewed, as I haven't updated or written anything--fanfiction, that is--in some time. I have for the time being given up fanfiction. I'm in the midst of the first book in my trilogy, and don't dare stop for anything else, no matter how many plot bunnies attack._

_Thank you all very much for your kind words and difficult questions, especially the Time-Turner questions. Unfortunately, for those of you that have asked, I don't have time to beta anyone or go over their work, as much as I'd like to. I am webmistress at a wonderful fanfiction site, however, with a large number of VERY talented writers who'd love to help out, read, review, and critique. Thank you all again, and when the book is published, you'll be the first to know. Hugs all around._


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